



































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































=^pi 'K^’ .>.^^'% l^W. ■ / "^-- \^K- ■^'^■"%^wy 

V" • ‘ \/,< - “ • >;' * •' ',/\ •:;;/ " *' ooyiy V • ‘ y\'^^', .. , 4.1 


o o 


cf* 


</> t^V 




'J> 

i> 

•< 

4- 

5.' 




V 




; voq,. 

, ^ '?• A *^*y '>-Y^ * 

C*^ J- X r\^ ''O A# „ > ^ 

v>'\-.,% *"’>y'V'„V’' v-v•■ .<5. 


^ . : .-i;-^ -r-mm': 

V ■^-. * 

%' “^ *■» ' ,*' 'O' 

4> * ' ' S ^ 







v--^ 

^ ^-tVJJ/'^ <• A 

« a>' ^ 



%: 

i ^ ^;><xv\vii ^ -O' s 

/v. ■>b 0^ " V 

\= jV '=^:<r- «• _ 

^ * 0 * » I ^ ^ s ■> * / 



^ *A' .>^ <iN‘ • c ' ^ 

X A ^Oox^ 

'V -, .. / « * > A. , V I « * ^ 

■*■ "bo' r»^»'. :®|^: “o' .' 

> A- <. -^ynm ,. • , <.■' . 

O/. ■ * y K O ^ ^ ' ^ , , , % * ^ . 

. .rf\1*(?/>,.'. ;;^M' *.'<:vS 





.vX 

« 'V 

c s ^ .’X ^ 0 


a\^ ,V.«, V y^^oNC ■''‘* 

f: \ xO *. ^ 

■j- .A (^, y « o* ^ ^ qO ■)* ■A’ 

' .0? * .0 N o ■" v’?’^ * « ' '" V »» z -^r. ^ vX X * 0 , 

V ^ " sP .^v I"' 

"]!. ^ ^ f> .A^‘ o ^ .a’ 

5^* X 

O^ ^ 0 9 K .\ 0 ' ,. ^ * it ^ k\ X 1 fi . "/A ^;:* . o a cv' <* 




owe 

^O rP 



r* > 

“5 


. C. . . 

^: .> 

' A’ . 

V ^ , ,,,. „ 

’V” •''./. 


.\'^' “^j. ° V 5 C^ • «■’ 

/ s' ^ 0 ’ A aO >. .. V 



X 


. , * . ^ o , k ^ 



Af" " 

/Jpjf ^ 



»« 

lA» ^ 

e /- ^ 

< 

f,y. e. 



W a ^ ^ 


15 H 



"a 



o 0^ : 


.0^ %.''* O N 

A - « Ao A' 

</> l^'- « 


W'" ^ 'J * "Aife. 



^ V- V 

. ..-• '.«XX'5S.-- .»■ 

,X> ^ .^V 

' y s '* \'^ '^Z* ^ 0 9 \ 

“'•,'bp *' .# -•"Jy-, oO\*bf<s'v.vb'-?.. 

', ■’t. s' 

« ^C^...=. ^ 

*' ,0^ 


o 


V^ 





''■ •ijM'X %s' 



J^O o^. 

• ■ /^'v = 


>- 


^ ff I A 

> 


9 9 


^ ^ X V - 

-< O A' ® /3S.W^T^5 a ^ 9 


4 


7. 


"■. %'''""o'^<‘”“*-A 

- ^o o'' ? V , 



^‘‘“V 










V,, “ % S?'' -■ 

* "* ' »V ^ ' ‘t - w* 

' • •'' lx<\ •> ‘ ■. “ •' \o'^\. -. 'V' • •'' A<\..' ■. %'; "'■' ‘ o'^.»“ ‘. 

1“ .. .- <. ^ V ^ 

o o' ^ 'V. 

. ^ 







’ '"<>. » B , 1 0 

V'' ^ 

'y m. \V <iA *• 

o. c‘ ^ ^ ^^ " 

■; V »' ; '^O o'^ = 



■'"<5. * A'^'^ v'"" 

A^■ ^ 


>0 0. 
V 





K 




^ „ ...^^■ "*; , ,o>‘ / 

^ ^V> \V 

< .^'^ « J 





\ \' '' * 8 
N ^ * 0 A > 




« fr 


vC 
</> \v 

A^’,. o N c , ^ 


^ » ,-rsrvv '■P 




r^ 




'^jt' O 

,*"/• % '■» 8'o‘",:.o , 

V ^ r-v < 

^ ’\^ «» 2* ^ _ 

■’ ■xX'^V I 

S V" <>«* 




■^o o' f ^ 

f ^ 




fx'^ 9^ ^ 

9 9^ ^/> ^ 0 s 0 \ V 

*> ’ 'y C‘ V ■«- ■' * «A 

.av ^ 

2 : 

c 

.. •/'•' 

^ -xAATn..^ ^ V >. 




</>. o 


ft 

^ cP » 




'3^ 


^ ^ D H ^ 



A% 1 ^ 



y wrirw^NAv 


y %^VCC^ 

> 

C» s.^ 

^S ^ 7 

A/. * 3 N 0 
'V C‘ 






A-’’ ^ ,d' "’b 

>V -AVAb •% «.b'-' 

^ \V r> ^ 

/ .x^' °^yw.' / . 

,a;'"'V\-;x. ;%;■'• ''a" ..-.a," 







^ ^ '•^o' 

y^ST", 

A^. , .1 < 



A, s 0 " dA * 8 , A » A ^ , -., 

V 'i- ' * A ^ A' 

.P. A^ ^ 

T* J 


OB 

,'«•>■*'A««.. A'"* 

0°' •‘Ax.' ^ 



S. .--..(TSfe. V , 

’ \0 


1 'J' r 

^ A 8- 


C 


•^ 00 ' 


o * o .< O ^ 

'" ‘ ' ^.A :MK'^ AA 'f:. 


y 


V\a ' * ^\o^cO- 

V^ ^ /y'7^ -y O \j 9 ^ -3^ > 

a^Xf//^ ^ ■ , <v cS^sV WY^l. ^ ^ A 


-< 

CV \' 

A -JA, - f . fS. A 

* A, 

AA^VV^// A \ 

s *A ^ 0 o t. aO < l * 6 s 

, - *>' V 

sc;^ "o 0 ^ ® ^ ^ 




















































































I 




i 










HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 































































Famous Authors 


AND THE 


Best Literature of England and America 


CONTAINING 

The Lives of English and American authors in Story Form. Their 
Portraits, Their Homes and Their Personal Traits. 

How They Worked and What They Wrote 

TOGETHER WITH 

CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM THEIR WRITINGS 


EMBRACING 

THE GREAT POETS OF ENGLAND AND AMERICA, FAMOUS NOVELISTS, DISTINGUISHED ESSAYISTS AND 
HISTORIANS, OUR HUMORISTS, NOTED JOURNALISTS AND MAGAZINE CONTRIBUTORS, STATESMEN 
IN LITERATURE, NOTED WOMEN IN LITERATURE, POPULAR WRITERS FOR YOUNG 
PEOPLE, GREAT ORATORS AND PUBLIC LECTURERS 


COxMPILED AND EDITED BY 


WILLIAM WILFRED BIRDSALL, A. B., Principal of Central School, Philadelphia 
RUFUS M. JONES, A. M., Professor of Philosophy, Haverford College, and others 


SUMPTUOUSLY ILLUSTRATED WITH ORIGINAL DRAWINGS 

By Charles Dana Gibson, Corwin K. Linson and Others 


Also Half-Tone Portraits, Photographs of Authors’ Homes 


AND Many Other Illustrations in the Text 
n 


'I 



TWO weEIVEO 

4-*=? •> G ^ d 








fff IIO^ 


2042 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1897, by 
W. E. SCULL, 

in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
A// rights reserved. 


ALL PERSON'S ARE WARNED NOT TO INFRINGE UPON OUR COPYRIGHT BY USING EITHER THE 

MATTER OR THE PICTURES IN THIS VOLUME. 




volume: I. 


Literature of England. 


PART 1, 


:)• 

6 . 


/• 

8 . 


The Beginxixgs of English Literature. 

Famous Poets of England and Their Masterpieces. 
The Great English Prose \\T<iters. 

Writers of Religious Classics. .... 

. t 

Famous English Novelists. ..... 
Popular Writers of Fiction. . . . . 

The Great Historians of England. 

Noted English Women in Literature. 

English Statesmen in Literature. 


33 

41 

130 

142 

157 

203 

237 

250 

270 


9 





VOLUME II. 


Literature of America. 


PART 

I. 

Great Poets of America. .... 

. 287 


2. 

Five Popular Western Poets. 

• 349 

ii 

3- 

Our Most Noted Novelists. 

• 371 

• i 

4- 

Famous Women Novelists. .... 

. 400 

41 

5- 

Representative Women Poets of America. . 

. 422 


6. 

Distinguished Essayists and Literary Critics. 

43*^ 

l( 

7- 

Great American Historians and Biographers. 

• 4S5 

<4 

8. 

Our National Humorists. .... 

• 504 

(t 

9- 

Popular Writers for Young People. 

. 527 










INTRODUCTION. 



HE most priceless possession of the people of England and America 
is their literature. their inheritance from their ancestors, and 
by the work of their own genius, they are, in this respect, the 
richest people on whom the sun has ever shone. There are great 
epic poems in Greek and Latin; Germany has produced great 
poets and far-seeing philosophers; France has given to the world 
historians and novelists ; and every nation has contributed to make 
up the sum of literature worthy of a place in the world’s library of masterpieces. 
But in the English language have been written the stories which best portray the 
human character, the sweetest songs, the most noble poems ; the English his¬ 
torian has seen most deeply into the mists and darkness which shroud the ages of 
the past; the English philosopher has most clearly understood the forces which 
move men to action and the laws which control their minds; and all these—poet, 
historian, traveler, novelist, and philosopher—^have poured out their souls in a lan¬ 
guage whose range and compass express better than any other human tongue all 
the varying thoughts, emotions, and purposes of man. To know English literature 
is a liberal education ; to love the poems of Milton and Shakespeare, of Longfellow 
and Tennyson; to take fire at the burning words of Carlyle or to be moved by the 
noble periods of Emerson ; to be stirred by the eloquence of Pitt or Webster; to 
strive with Gladstone to solve the questions of scholarship or the weightier prob¬ 
lems of statesmanship ; or to be lifted by Farrar or Spurgeon or MacLaren or 
Beecher to higher planes of spiritual life and thought, is to be in touch with the 




















12 


INTRODUCTION. 


greatest souls that have ever lived, to partake of their best, to be ol their company, 
and at one with them. This is the opportunity which opens to every reader ot 
this book. Here are presented the choicest portions of all that has been written in 
English. To read this book is to get a glimpse into the mind of Chaucer and 
Shakespeare and Milton, and to see by what steps our language rescued itself from 
choas and took on regularity and systematic form : here are gathered gems from 
every great poet who has sung in our language; here the reader may see with the 
eyes of Dickens the whimsical side of common life, or feel with him the pathos ot j 

want and suffering ; here may be found the masterpieces of our American litera- i 

ture—the stately verse of Bryant, the stirring lines of Whittier, Longfellow’s 
pathetic story of Evangeline, the typical American poetry of Bret Harte and Whit¬ 
comb Riley and Will Carleton. Within these pages may be seen how noble is the 
achievement of our own countrymen, and how well the fruits of the hundred years 
of American literature compare with the garnered treasures of all the centuries ot 
English culture. But while it may be well for some purposes to distinguish between 
American and English literature, and while there is a special meed of praise due 
to the genius of those great Americans whose works, here represented, compare so 
favorably with the best Old England’s sons have produced, still it is to be remem¬ 
bered that English and Americans have a common language; that Shakespeare 
and Milton and Tennyson are a part of the inheritance of every American, while 
Whittier and Bryant and Longfellow are claimed as their own by our kin beyond 
the sea. 

It is the purpose of this volume to present this literature of the two greatest » 
nations of the world as far as may be in its entirety. To this end every author < 
whose works deserve a place of honor on the tables in our American homes is \ 

here represented by a sketch of his life, an account of his principal works, a 
statement of his standing as a writer, and by choice selections from his writings. 
The work has been divided into /zi>o parts, because of the special interest that 
attaches to our distinctively American literature: but it is not intended by this 
means to suggest that there is any real difference between the work of Americans 
and that of Englishmen. 

It has been well said that all true history is biography, and in the lives of ^ 
English and American authors may be read not only the stor}' of how our literature 
has grown from the abortive attempts at poetry in which our Sa.xon forefathers 
endeavored to express themselves, but also the history' of the thought of our race. 

No story could be more interesting or more ennobling. This is not the history 
of wars, of statecraft, or of intrigue. Here are accounts of the lives of men and 
women who have bequeathed to us our noblest inheritance; here may be seen 
how they lived, what manner of people they were, by what means they grew to 
such stature as to overtop their fellows; what were their thoughts, what the J 
objects for which they strove; how they succeeded and in what they failed. This i 
may really be called a history of the actiznty of the Jiumoji mind. Wolfe declared I 
that he would rather be the writer of Gray’s “ Elegy ” than the conqueror of Quebec, i 
and if his estimate of the comparative values of military glory and literary renown | 
be the correct one, then this story of how the masterpieces of literature have been * 
written deserves to rank as the noblest form of history. j 





INTRODUCTION. 


13 


Coupled with these biographies are selections from the writings of each author, 
the purpose being to provide in compact and accessible form as much of the best 
that has been written as can be crowded within the covers of a single book. 

In thus joining the biographies of writers with extracts from their works, it is 
believed that several distinct advantages have been gained. In the first place, the 
book is made far more interesting. It is true that “ if you understand the character 
of an author the comprehension of his writings becomes easy,” and it is also true 
that “ ever)' author portrays himselt in his works, even though it be against his 
will ” ; and so the union of writings and biography will not only give a better and 
more complete picture of the author, but will enable the reader to take up his writ¬ 
ings with greater interest and with a better comprehension. It may reasonably be 
hoped, therefore, that this book will do much to further the cause of good litera¬ 
ture. It will not only be read with interest; it will furnish the mind of the reader 
with more knowledge of authors and of literature. Here is spread out some share 
ot all the feast that has been prepared; here is some of every sort; the reader 
may not only enjoy that with which he is familiar, but he will learn what else 
is to be had ; he may not only gratify the taste which is already his, but it may 
reasonably be expected that he will cultivate a liking for new forms of literature. 
Herein is one of the greatest uses which any book can serve, and to which this 
book is especially adapted. Here is not only the literature which entertains, but 
here is also the literature which refines and ennobles. If the reader is led to read 
the book by love of the former, his greatest thanks will be for providing him with 
the latter. And, further, this book will be the “open sesame ” which, by spreading 
before the reader a vision of all that the world of literature affords, will open to 
him the door and admit him to wander at will. Helping him to form a taste, it will 
enable him to gratify it by telling him what is to be had outside its covers. 

Here, then, the publishers have endeavored to provide accounts of the lives 
and writings of English and American authors, with a large portion of their best 
work, in the belief that there will come to the reader instruction as well as enjoy¬ 
ment, the culture of a taste for good literature, and the incentive to further explore 
the enticing realms of which a glimpse is here afforded. To further this purpose 
they have liberally illustrated these pages with portaits of authors, pictures of their 
homes, and of the scenes in which they lived. The cottage where Will Shake- 
•speare courted Ann Hathaway; the noble ruins whose fame is celebrated in the 
immortal works of Walter Scott; the tomb where “ rests his head upon the lap of 
earth,” the author of the unequaled “ Eleg}’”; the homes of Hawthorne and Long¬ 
fellow ; with many other pictures equally significant, will lend to these pages an 
interest impossible to obtain in any other way. 

An Index of Authors and a Table of Contents have been added, with a List 
of Illustrations and one of selections suitable for Recitation. The mechanical execu¬ 
tion is most excellent, and the book is now offered to the public with the hope 
that it may not only be of real service to the cause of literature, but promote 
the truest happiness and pleasure in the HOME. 


Contents of Volume I 


PART I. 

THE BEGINNINGS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 


PAGK 

SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE. 

Beginnings of the English Language, . 33 

Saxon and Norman Speech,. 33 

The First English Book,. 34 1 

Old English Poetry,. 34 

Stories of Travel,. 34 

From Mandeville’s ‘ Prologue,’ ... 35 

‘ The Chinese,’. 36 

GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 

The Real Father of English Literature, 34 

His Service to Posterity,. 34 

A Definite Spelling,. 34 

Chaucer Attached to the Court, ... 34 I 

Incidents of His Life,. 34 J 

The ‘ Canterbury Tales,’. 35 

‘ Tdie Prologue,’. 36 

WILLIAM CAXTON. 

Brings Printing into England, ... 37 

‘ The Game and Playe of Chesse,’ . . 37 

Work as a Translator,. 37 

‘ The Two Masters of Arts,’ .... 40 

JOHN WYCLIF. 

The First I’ranslator of the Whole 
Bible. 37 


PAGK 


His Great Influence, . 37 

Publishes His Bible. 37 

‘Matthew, Chapter 38 

WILLIAM TYNDALE. 

.\n Oxford Graduate,. 37 

Defies ‘The Pope and All His Laws,’ 38 

A Voluntary Exile,. 38 

Publishes the New Testament. 38 

Is Burned at the Stake. 38 

His Dying Prayer,. 38 

‘ Parable of the Good Samaritan,’ . . 39 

‘ Matthew, Chapter VHI,’. 39 

MILES COVERDALE. 

Bishop of Exeter. 38 

First Printed Edition of F.ntire Bible, . 38 

THOMAS CRANMER. 

Writes a Preface to Coverdale’s Bible, 38 
It is Authorized by the Church, ... 38 

KING JAMES 1 . 

Assembles a Council of .Scholars, . . 38 

'The ‘ Authorized Version,’. 38 

Its Hold on the People,. 38 

The ‘ Revised Version,’. 38 


PART II. 

FAMOUS ENGLISH POETS AND THEIR MASTERPIECES. 


PACK 


EDMUND SPENSER. 

The Successor of Chaucer,. 41 

Birth and Education,. 41 


The First Poem, . . 
Finds Favor at Court, 
Life in Ireland, . . . 


PACK 

41 

4 

4 


14 

































TABLE OF CONTENTS. 


^Marriage and Closing Years, .... 

His Principal Works,. 

‘ At the Altar,’. 

‘ Una and the Lion,’. 

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 

Little Known of His Life,. 

His ‘‘Small Latin and less Creek,” . 

Marries Anne Hathaway,. 

Coes to London,. 

( ’ondiicts Theaters and Writes I’lays, . 
History and Character of His Dramas, 

‘ Mercy,’. 

‘ Sonnet,’. 

‘ The Abuse of Authority,’. 

‘ 'I'he Matches,’ . 

‘ Death of Queen Katherine,’ . . . : 
‘ The Power of Imagination,’ . . . . 

‘ 'Die Fairy, to Puck,’. 

‘Ariel’s Song,’. 

‘ Oberon’s Vision,’. 

‘ Fall of Cardinal Wolsey,’. 

‘ 'rouchstone and Audrey,’. 

‘ The Seven Ages,’. 

‘ Ophelia,’. 

‘ Macbeth’s Irresolution,’. 

‘ Antony’s Oration at Ctesar’s Funeral,’ 
‘ Shylock and Antonio, ’ ... . . . 

‘ Hamlet’s Soliloquy,’. 

‘ Hamlet and theChost,’. 

‘ Othello’s Wooing,’. 

PEN JONSOX. 

A Bricklayer and a Student, . . . . 

A Soldier and an Actor,. 

His First Play,. 

Friendship with Shakespeare, . . . . 

Court Favor,. 

His Principal ^^’orks,. 

‘ Cupid,’. 

‘ Hymn to Cynthia.’. 

‘ Song to Celia.’. 

‘ On Taicy, ('ountess of Pembroke,’ 

JOHN MILTON. 

Early Life and Education. 

First Writings,. 

'Fravels Abroad, . 

Blindness,. 

Personal Description,. 

Public Services,. 

‘ Eve’s Account of her Creation,’ . . 


15 

PAGE 


‘ Invocation to Light,’. 64 

From ‘ L’Allegro,’. 65 

‘A Book Not a Dead Thing,’ .... 66 

'I'he ‘ Hymn to the Nativity,’ .... 66 

‘ Departure from Eden,’. 67 

ALEXANDER POPE. 

Deformity and Ill Health,. 68 

* I Lisped in Numbers,’. 68 

Studies Painting,. 68 

Translates the ‘ Iliad,’. 68 

The Villa at Twickenham,. 68 

• Address to Bolingbroke,’. 69 

‘'Prust in Providence,’. 69 

‘ Pride,’. 69 

‘ The Scale of Being,’. 70 

‘ Sound an Echo of the Sense,’ ... 70 

‘ Omnipresence of the Deity,’ .... 70 

‘ The Dying Christian to His Soul,’ . 71 

‘ The L^niversal Prayer,’. 71 

ISAAC WATTS. 

Writer of Christian Hymns,. 72 

Rank as a Poet,. 72 

Precocious Youth,. 72 

Service as a Minister,. 72 

Guest of Sir Thomas Abney, .... 72 

Dying Words,. 72 

‘ 'The Rose,’. 73 

‘ The Earnest Student,’. 73 

‘There is a Land of Pure Delight,’ . , 73 

‘ Looking Upward,’. 74 

‘My Dear Redeemer,’. 74 

‘ Come, We That Love the Lord,’ . . 74 

‘When I Survey the AVondrous Cross,’ 74 

‘ Psalm LXXII,’. 75 . 

‘ Come Holy Spirit,’ . 75 

‘From all that Dwell,’. 75 

THOMAS GRAY. 

Fame Rests on the ‘ Elegy,’. 76 

Story of AValpole,. 76 

Declines the Laureateship,. 76 

Personal Traits,.’. . . 76 

Character of His Great Poem, .... 76 

‘ Elegy Written in a Country Church¬ 
yard,’ . 76 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

A Shiftless Little Irishman,. 79 

He “Wrote like an Angel, but talked 
like ‘Poor Poll,’”. 79 


PAGE 

41 

41 

42 

42 

43 

43 

43 

43 

44 

46 

47 

47 

48 

48 

49 

49 

49 

50 

50 

51 

52 

53 

54 

54 

55 

56 

57 

57 

58 

60 

60 

60 

60 

60 

60 

61 

61 

61 

61 

62 

62 

62 

63 

63 

63 

64 






































































TABLE OF CONTENTS. 


l6 


His Spendthrift, Habits and Life 

Abroad,. 79 

Returns to London and Begins his Lit¬ 
erary Career,. 79 

Dr. Johnson and the ‘ Vicar of Wake¬ 
field,’ . 80 

'I'he Story of His Later ^Vorks, ... 80 

From ‘ The 'Traveler, ’. 80 

From ‘ The Deserted Village,’ ... 81 

‘ The Village Preacher,’. 81 

; 'A City Night-piece,’. 82 

ROBERT BURNS. 

His Life Not a Model,. 83 

His Peasant Father,. 83 

Rhyming and Making Love, .... 83 

Visit to Edinburgh,. 83 

Farmer, Exciseman, and Poet, ... 84 

‘ The Deil Cam’ Fiddlin’ Through the 

Town,’. 84 

‘ My Heart’s in the Highlands,’ ... 85 

' The Banks o’ Doon,’. 85 

‘ Man Was Made to Mourn,’ .... 86 

‘ Tam O’Shanter,’ . 87 

‘ Bruce To His Men,’. 88 

‘ The Cotter’s Saturday Night,’ ... 88 

WILLIAM COWPER. 

Painful Childhood,. 90 

Insanity,. 90 

Rind Friends,. 90 

‘ John Gilpin ’ and the ‘ Task,’ ... 90 

Closing Years,. 90 

‘ On Slavery,’ . 90 

‘ Imaginary Verses of A. Selkirk,’ . . 91 

‘ Light Shining in Darkness,’ .... 91 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 

The Sensitive Child, . 92 

Abuse at School,. 92 

Atheistic Views,. 92 

Abandons His Wife,.. 92 

Life and Death Abroad,. 92 

, His Poetry,. 92 

‘ The Sensitive Plant,’ . •. 92 

‘ Ode to a Skylark,’. 93 

‘The Cloud,’ . 93 

GEORGE GORDON BYRON. 

Controversy Over His Writings, ... 94 

The Sensitive Boy,. 94 


The Worthless Father and Indulgent 


Mother,. 94 

Early Life and Education,. 94 

‘English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,’ 94 

Marriage and After-life,. 94 

Takes Part in the Greek Rebellion and 

Dies,. 95 

His Poems,. 95 

‘ The Eve of Battle,’. 95 

‘ The Land of the East,’'. 95 

‘ The Isles of Greece,’. 96 

‘ Destruction of Sennacherib,’ .... 97 

‘ Apostrophe to the Ocean,’. 97 


SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 

His Strange Character and Appearance, 98 
Reads the Bible when Three Years Old, 98 
Leaves Cambridge and Enlists in the 


Dragoons,. 98 

Plans the Pantisocracy, . 98 

Writes the ‘ Ancient Mariner,’ ... 98 

Succumbs to the Use of Opium, ... 98 

A Delightful Talker,.100 

‘ The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,’ . 100 

‘ The Phantom Ship,’.100 

‘Adieu of the Ancient Mariner.’ . . . 102 

‘ A Calm on the Equator,’.104 

THOMAS HOOD. 

Apprenticed to an Engraver, .... 105 

Assistant Editor of the London Maga¬ 
zine, .105 

‘ Odes a‘nd Addresses,’.105 

The ‘ Comic Annual,’.105 

Financial Embarrassment,.105 

Life in Germany,.105 

Returns to London,.105 

‘ The Song of the Shirt,’.105 

‘'Fhe Bridge of Sighs,’.107 

THOMAS MOORE. 

Educated at Dublin,.109 

Popularity in London,. 109 

‘ Irish Songs and Melodies,’.109 

Destruction of Byron’s Autobiography, 109 

‘ Come Ye Disconsolate,’.109 

‘ 'Phis World is all a Fleeting Show,’ . 110 

‘ I’aradise and the Peri,’.no 

‘ Forget Not the Field,’.no 

‘ The Last Rose of Summer,’ .... in 

‘ 'Fhose Evening Bells,’.i n 

‘An Ideal Honeymoon,’ ... ... m 


































































TABLE OF CONTENTS. 


17 


WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

His Mission as a Poet,.112 

His Hostile Reception,.112 

Parentage and Means of Livelihood, . 112 

The Lake Poets, ... .•.112 

Becomes the Laureate,. 112 

Principal Works,.113 

‘ Our Immortality,’.113 

‘ To a Skylark,’. 114 

‘ Ode to Duty,’.115 

‘ Upon His Wife,’.115 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 

The First of Modern Poets,.116 

Education, .116 

Dislike of Publicity,.116 

The Pension, .117 

His Great Poems,.117 

‘ The Song of the Brook,’.118 

‘ Prelude to In Memoriam,’.119 

‘ Ring Out, Wild Bells,’.119 

‘ The Lady of Shallott,’.120 

‘ Sweet and Low,’.121 

‘The Here and the Hereafter,’ ... 121 

‘ The Passing of Arthur,’ ...*.. 122 


‘ Break, Break, Break,’.123 

‘ Bugle Song,’.123 

‘ Garden Song,’ .124 

‘Tears, Idle Tears,’.124 

ROBERT BROWNING. 

His Poetry Little Understood, .... 125 

Incidents of His Life,.125 

Residence Abroad,.125 

Character of His Poems,.125 

His Principal Works,.125 

‘ The Ride from Ghent to Aix,’ ... 125 

‘ Evelyn Hope,’ .126 

‘ The Book,’.127 


ALFRED AUSTIN. 

Surprise at His Being Made Laureate, . 128 

The Quality of His Verse,.128 

His Work as a Journalist,.128 

Novels and Essays,.128 

‘The Garden that I Love,’.128 

The Laureate of the English Seasons, . 128 

‘ The Golden Year,’.128 

‘A Night in June,’.129 


PART III. 

THE GREAT ENGLISH PROSE WRITERS. 


SAMUEL JOHNSON. 

The Details of His Life Known, . . . 130 

Personal Traits, .130 

Labor on the ‘ Dictionary,’.130 

Union of Great Powers with Low 

Prejudices, .130 

‘ Letter to the Earl of Chesterfield,’ . 131 

‘ The Duty of Forgiveness ’.131 

THOMAS CARLYLE. 

Son of a Scotch Mason,.133 

His Mother,.133 

Goes to College,.133 

Marries Jane Welsh,.133 

Life at Craigenputtoch,.J33 

Contributes to Edinburgh Review, 133 

Removes to London,.133 

2 


‘Cromwell,’ ‘Frederick,’ and ‘The 


French Revolution,’.134 

‘ England After Cromwell,’.134 

‘ Carlyle on His Dyspepsia,’ .... 135 

‘ Honest Study,’.135 

‘ Clothes and Their Significance,’ . . 136 

‘'Fhe Everlasting Yea,’ . 136 

‘ Oratory and Literature,’ .137 

JOHN RUSKIN. 

Beauty of His Language,.138 

Art, Architecture, and Philosophy, . . 138 

Outline of His Life,.138 

His Principal Works, 138 

Later Years,.138 

‘ Books and Their Uses,’.139 

‘ Home Virtues,’.140 

‘ Art Rooted in Man’s Moral Nature,’ 141 
‘ Truthfulness in Art,’.141 



























































IS 


TABLE OF CONTENTS. 


PART IV. 

WRITERS OF RELIGIOUS CLASSICS. 


PACK 


FREDERICK WDJJAM FARRAR. 

Influence of His Writings,.142 

The Story of His Life,.142 

Writes Works of Fiction, .142 

His Contributions to Learning, and His 

Great Books,.142 

His Preaching,.142 

‘The Hill of Nazareth,’.143 

‘ The Greatness of St. Paul,’ .... 144 

CHARLES HADDON SPURGEON. 

His Life-work,.145 

The Great Congregation, .145 

Labors as an Author,.145 

Organized Philanthropy,.145 

Story of His Life,.145 

His Preaching, . 146 

‘ The First Christmas Carol,’ .... 146 


UR. JOHN WATSON (Ian Maclaren). 
He Enters Literature in Middle Life, . 
Vacations in Scotch Farm-houses, . . 
Studies in Edinburgh and Wiirtemberg, 
Accepts a Call to a Secluded Parish, . 

A Born Story-teller,. 

Removes to Glasgow and to Liverpool, 
Writes ‘ Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush,’ 

His Visit to America,. 

‘In Marget’s Garden,’. 

HENRY DRUMMOND. 

The Conflict of Science and Religion, 

‘ The Greatest Thing in the World,’ . 
Lecture Tours and Scientific Journeys, 

Growth of His Popularity,. 

‘ Conformity to Type,’. 

‘ Footpaths in the African Forest.’ . . 


PART V. 

FAMOUS ENGLISH NOVELISTS. 


PACK 


DANIEL DEFOE. 

The Founder of the English Novel, . 157 

Deceives the Public by His Stories, . 157 

‘ The Shortest Way with Dissenters,’ . 157 

He is Sentenced to the Pillory, ... 157 

His Books Written in Prison, .... 157 

He Enters the Government Employ, . 157 

Author of Over Two Hundred Books 

and Pamphlets,.158 

Incidents of His Life,.158 

‘ Robinson Crusoe Discovers the Foot¬ 
prints,’ .159 

SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

A Born Story-teller,.160 

Lameness,.160 

Becomes Sheriff of Selkirkshire, ... 160 

Married Life, .160 

Abandons His Profession of Law, . . 160 

His Poems,.160 

His Novels,.161 

Later Life and Death,.162 

‘ Parting of Marmion and Douglas,’ . 162 

‘ Melrose Abbey,’.163 

‘ Soldier Rest,’.164 

‘ Boat Song,’.164 


‘ The Fisherman’s Funeral,’. 

‘ The Necessity and Dignity of Labor,’ 

‘ Sir Walter Raleigh Spreads His Cloak 

for Queen Elizabeth,’. 

‘The Storming of Front-de-Boeuf’s 
Castle, ’. 

CHARLES DICKENS. 

He Has Awakened Pity in Sixty Mil¬ 
lion Hearts,. 

His Shiftless Father,. 

Work in a Blacking Factory, .... 
Goes to School and Studies Shorthand, 

‘ Sketches by Boz,’. 

The Story of His Novels,. 

His Readings and American Journeys, 
The Children of His Genius, . . . 

‘ Bardell versus Pickwick,’. 

‘ Through the Storm,’. 

‘The Death of Little Nell,’. 

‘ Sam Weller’s Valentine,’. 

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 

His Standing as a Writer,. 

Personal History,. 

His Books and Lectures,. 


PAGE 

148 

148 

148 

148 

148 

149 
149 
149 
149 


153 

153 

153 

153 

154 

155 


165 

167 

168 


170 


172 

172 

172 

172 

173 

173 

174 

175 
175 
177 

180 

182 


185 

185 

186 
















































TABLE OF CONTENTS. 19 


Contributions to.187 

A Social Critic, .187 

‘ The Fotheringay Off the Stage,’ . . 188 

‘ Miss Rebecca Sharp,’.190 

‘ Thomas Newcome Answers,’ .... 192 

‘ Old Fables with a New Purpose,’ . . 193 

‘ Loyalty to Truth,’.195 

EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON. 

The Delicate Child,.196 

Early Education by His Mother, . . . 196 

College Life,.196 

Unhappy Marriage,.196 


PAGE 


He is Raised to the Peerage, .... 196 

His Works Comprise Some Fifty Vol¬ 
umes, .196 

‘ In the Arena,’ .196 

ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 

A Painter of Actual Men and Manners, 200 
Success as Officer in Postal Service, . 200 

A Keen Sportsman,.200 

His Books of Travel,.200 

His Novels,.200 

‘ A Lesson in Philosophy,.200 

‘The Reverend Mr. Slope,’.201 


PART VI. 

POPULAR WRITERS OF FICTION. 


WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS. page 

An Old-fashioned Opinion,.203 

Friendship with Charles Dickens, . . 203 

He Tries to be a Social Reformer, . . 203 

Intricacy of His Plots, .203 

His Widespread Popularity,.203 

‘ The Count and Countess Tosco,’ . . 204 

‘ Ozias Midwinter,’.205 

WILLIAM BLACK. 

His Early Love of Nature,.206 

Editor and Correspondent,.206 

Might Be a Scotch Pilot,.206 

Descriptions of Scenery,. 206 

Principal Novels,.206 

‘A Ride Over Scottish Moors,’ . . . 206 

‘A Secret of the Sea,’.207 

GEORGE Macdonald. 

Poet, Novelist, Preacher,.210 

Education in Aberdeen and London, . 210 

He Becomes an Independent Minister, 210 
His Lecture Tour in America, .... 210 

Residence in Italy,.210 

His Principal Works,.210 

‘ In the Bell Tower,’.210 

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. 

His Lovable Character,.212 

Prefers Literature to Engineering or 

the Law,.212 

Failing Health, but Unfailing Courage, 212 
Life in Samoa,.212 


Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,.212 

'The Love of the Natives, .213 

‘ The Two Philosophers,’.213 

‘ Truth of Intercourse,’.215 

‘ The House Beautiful,’.216 

‘ Requiem,’.217 

SIR WALTER BESANT. 

Novelist and Reformer, .217 

A Teacher in Mauritiusj.217 

Partnership with James Rice, . . . . 217 

‘ All Sorts ancj Conditions of Men,’ . 217 

His Skill as a Writer,.217 

He is made a Baronet,.217 

‘ Presented by the Sea,’.217 

JAMES M. BARRIE. 

Popularity of Scotch Dialect Sketches, 221 
His Father as ‘Dr. McQueen,’ ... 221 

Educated at Edinburgh,.221 

Success of ‘ Auld Licht Idylls,’ . . . 221 

His Other Books and Plays, . . . . 221 

‘ Preparing to Receive Company,’ . 221 

GEORGE DU MAURIER. 

French and English Parentage, ... 224 

Set by His Father to Study Chemistry, 224 
He Forsakes Science for Art, ... 224 

His Pictures in Punch, .224 

‘ Peter Ibbetson ’ and ‘ Trilby,’ . . . 225 

Their Wonderful Popularity, .... 225 

His Death in 1896,.225 

His Posthumous Story ‘ The Martian,’ . 225 


















































20 


TABLE OF CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


RUDYARD KIPLING. 

A Freebooter in Literature, ... . 225 

Twenty-six Volumes in Twelve Years, 225 
Life in India, America, and England, 225 
Studies the Life of Gloucester Fisher¬ 
men, .225 

His Most Popular Books,.225 

‘ How Wee Willie Winkle Won His 

Spurs,’.227 

* Jubilee Hymn,’.234 

.\. CONAN DOYLE. 

He Prefers His Historical Romances, . 226 
His Fame, However, Rests on Detec¬ 
tive Stories,.226 


P.4GH 

His Wonderful Creation of Sherlock 


Holmes, .226 

The Story of His Life,.226 

‘The Science of Deduction,’ .... 230 

THOMAS HENRY HALL CAINE. 

The Novelist of the Isle of Man, . . 226 

Genius, a Capacity for Taking Pains, . 226 

He Studies Architecture,.227 

Foresakes this Profession to Write 

Novels,.227 

His Journey to America,.227 

Home on the Isle of Man,.227 

‘ The Good Bishop,’.234 


PART VII. 

THE GREAT HISTORIANS OF ENGLAND. 


EDWARD GIBBON. page 

Converted to Catholicism and Again 

Becomes a Protestant,.237 

His Love Affair,.237 

He Travels and Conceives the Idea of 

His History,.237 

Style of His Writings,.237 

A Member of Parliament,.237 

‘ Conception and Completion of His 

History,’.238 

‘ Charlemagne,’ .238 

‘ Mahomet,’.239 

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 

Biography by Trevelyan,.241 

Early Precocity,.241 

Contributions to Edinburgh Review, . 241 


PAGE 


Public Services,.. . 241 

History of England,.242 

‘ Fallacious Distrust of Liberty,’ . . . 243 

‘ John Hampden,’.244 

‘The Puritans,’.244 

‘ Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress,’ . . . 245 

JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE. 

A Typical Modern Historian, .... 247 

Becomes a Deacon, but Ceases to be 

Orthodox,.247 

Loses His Fellowship and Teacher’s 

Appointment,.247 

Writes His History, .247 

Criticisms of His Work,.247 

‘ Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots,’ 248 


PART VIII. 

NOTED ENGLISH WOMEN IN LITERATURE. 


FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. page 

‘The Most Feminine Writer of Her 

Age,’.250 

Her Poems in School-books, . . . . 250 

Unhappy Marriage,.250 

Residence in Wales,.250 

‘ Too Many Flowers and Too Little 

Fruit,’.250 

Her Visits to Scott and Wordsworth, . 250 

‘ The Hour of Prayer,’.250 

‘ The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers,’ 251 
' The Treasures of the Deep,’ .... 251 


PAGE 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

Birth and Early Life, ....... 252 

Education of a Boy,.252 

Description by Miss Mitford, .... 252 

Ill Health,.252 

Marriage. 253 

Her Principal Works,.253 

Tribute to Her Genius by Her Hus¬ 
band, .253 

‘ The Cry of the Human,’.253 

‘The Sleep,’.254 
















































TABLE OF CONTENTS. 


21 


GEORGE ELIOT. 

Her Position as a Novelist,.255 

Birth and Early Life,.255 

Her Great Novels,.255 

Marriage and Closing Years, .... 256 

‘ Florence in 1794,’.256 

‘ A Passage at Arms,’.257 


‘ The Poyser Family go to Church,’ . 258 

MRS. MARGARET OLIPHANT. 

The Most Versatile Woman in English 


Letters,.261 

Her First Novel,.261 

Success in Many Departments, ... 261 

Blackwood's Magazine, .261 

Her Principal Works,.261 

Death in 1897,.261 

‘An English Rector and Rectory,’ . . 261 

‘ Edward Irving,’.263 


MRS. HUMPHRY WARD. 

The Most Distinguished Living Writer 


of English Novels, .264 

Her Birthplace in Tasmania, .... 264 

Her Father’s Career, .264 

Mrs. Ward’s Early Work,.264 

The Success of ‘ Robert Elsmere,’ . . 264 

‘Oxford,’.264 

JEAN INGELOW. 

Her Place in Public Estimation, ... 267 

A Large Family,.267 

Poems on Window Shutters, .... 267 

Her First Volume, .267 

Her Novels,.267 

‘ Seven Times One,’.268 

‘ Seven Times Two,’ .268 

‘ Seven Times Three,’.268 

‘ Seven Times Five,’. 269 


PART IXo 

ENGLISH STATESMEN IN LITERATURE 


WILLIAM PITT. p,,0E 

The Friend of America,.270 

Education and Election to Parliament, 270 
His Independence Prevents Rapid Ad¬ 
vancement, .270 

His Continued Ill-health, .270 

Speech Against the Boston Port Bill, . 270 

His Last Appearance in the House of 

Lords,.270 

His Eloquence, and His Disinterested 

Character,.270 

‘ Repeal Claimed by Americans as a 
Right,’.271 

BENJAMIN DISRAELI. 

The Statesman and Novelist, .... 272 

His Early Successes,.272 

Political Writings,.272 

He Enters Parliament,.272 

‘The Time Will Come When You Will 

Hear Me,’.272 

He Becomes Prime Minister, .... 272 

His Literary Power, . . ,.272 

‘ Mr. Phoebus’s Views of Art and Edu¬ 
cation,’ .273 

JOHN BRIGHT. 

American Interest in Him,.274 

High Character,.274 

Birth and Quaker Training, .... 274 


PAGE 


His Oratory,.274 

Friendship with Cobden,.274 

Attitude toward Home Rule, .... 274 

‘Speech on the Corn-laws,’.275 

‘ Incendiarism in Ireland,’.276 

WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE. 

His Place as Statesman and Scholar, . 277 

Distinction at Oxford,.277 

His Share in the Government, .... 277 

His Principal Books,.278 

Oratory, and Skill as a Financier, . . 278 

Retirement,.278 

‘ Anticipations for the Church of Eng¬ 
land,’ .278 

‘ Some After-thoughts,’ .279 

‘ An Estimate of Macaulay,’ .... 280 

jus'riN McCarthy. 

The Irish Cause in the English Parlia¬ 
ment, . . •.282 

A Native of Cork,. "... 282 

Reporter in Cork, Liverpool, and Lon¬ 
don, .282 

Editor of London YA/r, . . 282 

Years in America.282 

Return, and Election to Parliament, . 282 

Services to the Irish Cause,.282 

His Novels, Essays, and Histories, . . 282 

‘ The Withdrawal from Cabul,’ . . . 283 























































Contents of Volume II. 


PART I. 

THE GREAT POETS OF AMERICA. 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

An Author at Fourteen,.287 

The Influence of TIis Father, . . . . 287 

Bryant’s Best-known Poems, .... 288 

Personal Appearance,.289 

A Long and Useful Life,.289 

‘ T'hanatopsis,’.290 

‘ Waiting by the Gate,’.290 

‘ Blessed are They T'hat Mourn.’ . . 291 

‘ Antiquity of Freedom,’.292 

‘ To a Water-fowl,’.292 

‘ Robert of Lincoln,’ . •.293 

‘ Drought,’ .293 

‘TTePast,’.294 

‘ The Murdered Traveler,’.294 

‘ The Battle-field,’.295 

EDGAR ALLEN POE. 

Comparison with other American Poets, 296 
Place of Birth and Ancestry, .... 296 

Career as a Student,.297 


PACK 

The Sadness of His Life and Its Influ¬ 
ence upon His Literature.297 

Conflicting Statements of Biogra])hers, 298 
Great as a Story-writer and as a Poet, . 298 

His Literary Labors and Productions, . 299 

‘ Lenore,’.300 

‘The Bells,’.300 

‘T'he Raven,’.302 

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

His Place in Literature,.305 

Comparison with American and Eng¬ 
lish Poets,.305 

His Education, College-mates, and 

Home,.306 

'The Wayside Inn (A view of), . . . 306 

His Domestiq Life. His Poems, . . . 308 

His Critics: Poe, Margaret Fuller, 

Duyckink,.308 

Prose Works and Translations.308 

Longfellow’s Genius,.308 


i 


2 





































CONTENTS OF VOLUME 11. 23 


‘ The Village Blacksmith,’.309 

‘ The Bridge,’.310 

‘Resignation,’.310 

‘God’s Acre,’.311 

‘Excelsior,’.311 

‘ The Rainy Day,’ .312 

‘The Wreck of the Hesperus,’ ... 312 

‘The Old Clock on the Stairs,’ ... 313 

‘ The Skeleton in Armor,’.314 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

The Difficulty of Classifying Emerson, 316 
The Liberator of American Letters, . 316 

A Master of Language,.317 

Emerson and Franklin, .317 

Birth, Education, Early Life, .... 317 

Home at Concord. Brook-farm Enter¬ 
prise, .318 

Influence on Other Writers,.319 

Modern Communism and the New The¬ 
ology, .319 

‘ Hymn Sung at the Completion of the 
Concord Monument (1836),’ . . . 320 

‘ The Rhodora,’.320 

‘ A'I'rue Hero,’.320 

‘ Mountain and Squirrel,’.321 

‘ The Snow-storm,’.321 

‘ The Problem,’ .321 

‘Traveling,’.322 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

Whittier’s Humble Birth, Ancestry, Ed¬ 
ucation, .323 

Poet of the Abolitionists,.324 

His Poems and His Prose,.324 

Our Most Distinctively American Poet, 325 
New England’s History Embalmed in 

Verse, .325 

‘ My Playmate,’.326 

‘ The Changeling,’.326 

‘ The Workshop of Nature,’ .... 328 


PAGE 


‘ The Barefoot Boy,’ .328 

‘ Maud Muller,’ .329 

‘ Memories,’.330 

‘The Prisoner for Debt,’.331 

‘The Storin’ (From ‘Snow Bound’) . 332 

‘ Ichabod,’ .33 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

Admired by the English-speaking World, 334 
His Education and Popularity, . . . 334 

Early Poems,.334 

Autocrat and Professor at the Breakfast 

Table,.335 

Holmes’ Genial and Lovable Nature, . 335 

‘ Bill and Joe,’.337 

‘ Union and Liberty,’.337 

‘ Old Ironsides,’.338 

‘My Aunt,’.338 

‘The Height of the Ridiculous,’ . . . 338 

‘ The Chambered Nautilus,’ .... 339 

‘ Old .Age and the Professor ’ (Prose ), 339 

‘ My Last Walk with the School-mis¬ 
tress,’ .340 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

Profoundest of American Poets, ... 341 

Early Life and Beginning in Literature, 341 
Marriage, and the Influence of His Wife, 342 
Home at Cambridge (View of), . . . 342 

Longfellow’s Poem on Mrs. Lowell’s 

l>eath, ■.. . . 343 

Humorous Poems and Prose Writings, . 343 

Public Career of the Author, .... 344 

How Lowell is Regarded by Scholars, . 344 

‘The Gothic Genius, ’.345 

‘The Rose,’.345 

‘ The Heritage,’.346 

‘ Act for Truth,’.347 

‘ The First Snow-fall,’.347 

‘ Fourth-of-July Ode,’.348 

‘ The Dandelion,’ . . , ..348 


PART II. 


FIVE POPULAR WESTERN POETS. 


JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY - PAGE 

Great Popularity with the Masses, . . 349 

A Poet of the Country People, . . . 349 

Birth and Education,.350 

First Occupation,.350 

Congratulated by Longfellow.350 

Mr. Riley’s Methods of Work, . . . 350 


The Poet’s Home, .... 
Constantly ‘on the W’ing,’ . 
‘ A Boy’s Mother,’ . . . . 
‘ Thoughts on the Late ^^’ar, ’ 
‘Our Hired Girl,’ . . . . 
‘The Raggedy Man,’ . . . 


351 

351 

351 

351 

352 
352 
























































24 


CONTENTS OF VOLUME 11, 


BRET HARTE. 

The Poet of the Mining Camp, . . . 353 

Birth and Education,.353 

Emigrated to California,.353 

School-teacher and Miner,.353 

Position on a Frontier Paper, .... 353 

Editorial Position on the ‘ Golden Era,’ 353 

Secretary of the U. S. Mint at San 

Francisco,.354 

In Chicago and Boston,.354 

EUGENE FIELD. 

The ‘ Poet of Child Life,’.357 

Peacemaker Among the Small Ones, . 357 

A Feast with His Little Friends, . . 357 

Congenial Association with His Fellow 

Workers,.358 

Birth and Early Life,.358 

His Works,.358 

‘ Oiir Two Opinions,’.359 

‘Lullaby,’.359 

‘A Dutch Lullaby,’.359 

‘ A Norse Lullaby,’.360 


WILL CARLETON. 

His Poems Favorites for Recitation, . 361 

Birth and Early Life,.361 

Teacher, Farmhand, and College Grad¬ 
uate, .361 

Journalist and Lecturer,.361 

A List of His Works,.362 

‘ Betsy and I are Out,’.362 

‘ Gone with a Handsomer Man,’ . . . 363 


CINCINNATUS HINER MILLER. 

Experience in Mining and Filibuster¬ 
ing, .366 

Marries and Becomes Editor and Law¬ 
yer, .366 

Visit to London to Seek a Publisher, . 367 

Comparison Between Miller and Bret 

Harte,.367 

‘ Thoughts on My Western Home,’ . 368 

‘ Mount Shasta,’.368 

‘ Kit Carson’s Ride,’.369 

‘ Alaska Letter,’.370 


PART III. 

OUR MOST NOTED NOVELISTS. 


JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 

Birth and Childhood, . . 371 

Sailor. Life,.372 

Marriage and Home,.372 

‘The Spy,’.372 

Plaudits from Both Sides of the Atlantic, 372 

Removal to New York, .373 

‘ Encounter with the Panther,’ . . . 375 
‘ The Capture of the Whale,’ . . . . 377 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

Birth, Ancestors, and Childhood, . . 379 

Twelve Years of Solitary Existence, . 379 

His First Book,.380 

A Staunch Democrat,.381 

Marriage and the ‘Old Manse,’ . . . 381 

The Masterpiece in American Fiction, 381 

Death and Funeral, ..382 

‘ Emerson and the Emersonians,’ . . 383 

‘Pearl,’.383 

EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 

Among the Best-known American Au¬ 
thors, . ..385 


PAGE 


A Noted Lecturer,.385 

Birth and Education,.385 

Career as a Clergyman,.385 

Newspaper and Magazine Work, . . . 385 

An Historical Writer of Great Promi¬ 
nence, .386 

Patriotic Interest in Public Affairs, . . 386 

‘Lost,’.386 

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 

Birth and Early Life,.388 

Editor of the ‘Ohio State Jourral,’ . 388 

His First Volume of Verse,.388 

Consul to Venice,.388 

Mr. Howells’ Works.389 

Editor of the ‘ Atlantic Monthly,’ . . 389 

‘ Impressions on Visiting Pompeii,’ . 390 
‘ Venetian Vagabonds,’.391 


GENERAL LEW WALLACE. 

Birth and Early Life,.392 

Lawyer and Soldier,.392 























































CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. 


25 


Governor of Utah,.392 

Appointed Minister to Turkey, , . , 392 

His Most Popular Book,.393 

‘ Description of Christ,’.393 

‘ The Prince of India Teaches Reincar¬ 
nation,’ .393 

‘ Death of Montezuma,’.393 


EDWARD EGGLESTON. 

Birth and Early Life,.395 

A Man of Self-culture, .395 

His Early Training,.395 

Religious Devotion and Sacrifice, . . 396 

Beginning of His Literary Career, . . 396 
List of His Chief Novels and Stories, 396 
‘ Spelling Down the Master,’ .... 397 


PART IV. 

REPRESENTATIVE WOMEN NOVELISTS. 


HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

Ancestors, Birth, and Girlhood, . . . 400 

Marriage,.400 

Severe Trials,.. . . 401 

A Memorable Year,.401 

Removal to Hartford, Conn., .... 403 

Her Death,.403 

‘ The Little Evangelist,’.404 

‘ The Other World,’.407 

M. VIRGINIA TERHUNE (^Marion Har- 
land). 

Birth and Education,.408 

Marriage and Home,.408 

Her Most Prominent Works, .... 408 

‘ A Manly Hero,’.409 

HELEN HUNT JACKSON. 

Birth and Education,.410 

Marriage and Removal to Newport, R. I., 410 
Great Distinction as a Writer, .... 411 

At the Foot of Pike’s Peak, .... 411 

List of Her Most Prominent Works, . 411 

Death and Burial Place,.411 

‘ Christmas Night at St. Peter’s,’ . . 411 

‘Choice of Colors,’.412 


FRANCES H. BURNETT. 

Pluck, Energy, and Perseverance, . . 414 

Her First Story,.414 

Marriage and Tour in Europe, ... 414 

Her Children Stories,.414 

A Frequent Contributor to Periodicals, 414 
‘ Pretty Polly P.,’.415 


MARY N. MURFREE {Chas. Egbert 


Craddock). 

An Amusing Story,.417 

Birth, Ancestry, and Misfortunes, . . 417 

A Student of Humanity,.417 

Her Style Bold and Full of Humor, . 418 
‘ The Confession,’.418 

AMELIA E. BARR. 

Popularity of Her Works, ’.419 

Heir Sorrows and Hardships, .... 419 

Birth and Early Education,.419 

Marriage and Travels,.419 

Death of Her Husband and Four Sons, 419 
Compelled to Turn a Writer, .... 419 

An Instantly Successful Book, . . . , 419 

‘ Little Jan’s Triumph,’.420 


PART V. 

REPRESENTATIVE WOMEN POETS OF AMERICA. 


LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 

Birth and Educational Advantages, . . 422 

Her First Book,.422 

Some of Her Other Works,.422 

Death,.423 

‘ Columbus,’.424 

‘ The Alpine Flowers,’.424 

‘Niagara,’.424 


• PAGE 

‘Death of an Infant,’.425 

‘ A Butterfly on a Child’s Grave,’ . . 425 

ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 

Ancestors and Birth, .426 

A Liberal Contributor to Periodicals, . 426 

Her Published Works.426 














































26 


CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. 


PACE 

‘ The Stepmother,’.427 

‘ Guardian Angels,’.427 

‘T’he Brook,’.428 

ALICE AND PHCEBE CARY. 

Their Birth and Early Lot.429 

T'heir First Volume, ... .... . . 429 

Some of Their Prominent Works, . . 429 

A Comparison Between the Two Sisters, 430. 

‘ Pictures of Memory,’ .431 

‘Nobility,’.431 

‘ The Gray Swan,’.431 

‘Memories,’.432 

‘Death Scene,’.432 

LUCY LARCOM. 

Operative in a Cotton Factory, , . . 433 


PAGE 

Birth and Early Life,.433 

Her First Literary Production, . . . 433 

Some of Her Best Works,.433 

The Working Woman’s Friend, . . . 434 

‘ Hannah Binding Shoes,’.434 

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 

Birth and Education,.435 

Her First Book at Nineteen Years, . , 435 

Her Following Publications, .... 435 

A Systematic Worker,.436 

‘If there were Dreams to Sell,’ . . . 436 

‘ Wife to Husband,’.436 

‘ The Last Good-Bye,’ '..437 

‘ Next Year, ’.437 

‘ My Mother’s Picture,’.437 


PART \T. 

WELL-KNOWN ESSAYISTS, CRITICS, AND SKETCH WRITERS. 


WASHINGTON IRVING. p.,ge 

Birth and Ancestors, .438 

Early Success as a Journalist, .... 439 

A Two Years’ Trip in Europe, . . . 439 

A Shrewd Advertisement,.439 

The W'inning Character of His Genius, 441 
‘The Organ of Westminster Abbey,’ . 442 

‘ Baltus Van T'assel’s Farm,’ .... 442 

‘ Columbus at Barcelona,’.443 

‘ The Galloping Hessian,’.444 

CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 

The Meditative School in American 

Literature,.44S 

Birth, Ancestry, and Education, . . . 448 

Early Life, .448 

In ‘The Brotherhood of Authors,’ . . 448 

His First Literary Work.448 

A Few of His Other Publications, . . 449 

‘ I'he Moral Quality of Vegetables,’ . 449 

DONALD G. MITCHELL (I/^ Afanr/). 

Characteristics of the Author, . . . . 451 

A Disciple of Washington Irving, . . 451 

Birth, Education, and Early Life, . . 451 

Home and Marriage, .431 

U. S. Consul to Venice,.451 

‘ Glimpses of ‘Dream Life,’ ’ . . . . 452 


EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. p^ge 
B irth, Ancestry, and Early Life, . . . 463 

On the New York ‘Tribune,’ .... 464 

Editor of the ‘World,’.464 

A List of His Prominent Works, . . 464 

Poet and Man of Business,.464 

‘ Betrothed Anew,’.465 

‘ The Door-step,’.465 

HAMILTON W. MABIE. 

Birth, Family, and Education, . . . 466 

Familiar with the Classics,.466 

On the Staff of the ‘ Christian Union,’ 466 
Profound Study of the Problems of Life, 466 
A Declaration Typical of All His 

Thought,.466 

‘ Country Sights and Sounds,’ .... 467 

RICHARD HARDING DAVIS. 

Marvelous Skill in Seeing the World, . 475 

A Clever Newspaper Reporter, ... 475 

Birth, Parentage, and Education, . . 475 

His First Real Fame,.475 

His Books Full of Life and Activity, . 475 

A Few of His Prominent Books, . . . 475 

‘The Origin of a Type of the Ameri¬ 
can Girl,’.476 















































CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. 


27 


THOMAS WENT WORTH HIGGINSOX. page 
A Noble Part in the P>attles for Free¬ 
dom, .483 

Activity in the Anti-Slavery Agitation, 483 


PAGE 

His Contributions to Literature, . . . 483 

A Popular Historian,.484 

‘ A Puritan Sunday Morning,’ . . . 484 

VII. 


PART 

GREAT AMERICAN HISTORIANS AND BIOGRAPHERS. 


G EORG EH. BA NCRO FT. 

The First Among American Historians, 485 

Birth and Education,.485 

Extensive Studies in Europe, .... 485 

Appointed Professor at Harvard Col¬ 
lege, .485 

A School of High Classical Character, 485 

Official Service,.486 

His ‘ History of the United States,’ . 486 

A Long and Useful Life,.487 

‘ Character of Roger Williams,’ . . . 488 

‘ Destruction of the Tea in Boston Har¬ 
bor,’ .488 

‘ Chivalry and I’uritanism,’.489 

JAMES PARTON. 

Ancestry, Birth and Education, . . . 490 

A Very Successful Teacher,.490 

His Career as a Literary Man, .... 490 

On the Staff of the New York Ledger, . 491 
His Most Prominent Works, .... 491 

‘ Old Virginia,’.492 


WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 

A Popular Historian,.494 

Birth, Parentage, and Early Life, . . 494 

A Thorough Preparation,.494 

Marriage and Happy Home, .... 495 

His Method of Composition, . . . . 495 
Successful as a Writer from the First, . 496 

A List of His Works,.496 

Many Engaging Qualities,.497 

‘ The Golden Age of Tezcuco,’ ... 497 

‘ The Banquet of the Dead,’ .... 498 

JOHN L. MOTLEY. 

Birth, Boyhood, and Early Associates, 499 
Intimate Friend of Prince Bismarck, . 499 
Member of Massachusetts Legislature, . 499 

‘ History of Holland,’.500 

Minister to Austria, 1861 ; to England, 

1869,.500 

Patriot, Scholar, Historian,.501 

‘ The Siege of Leyden,’.502 

‘ Assassination of William of Orange,’ . 503 


PART VIII. 

OUR NATIONAL HUMORISTS. 


HENRY W. SHAW {Josh Billings). 


Birth and Education,.504 

His Early Life of Adventure, .... 504. 

Entered the Lecture Field.504 

Contributor to The New York M'eekly, 504 

His Published Books,.504 

‘ Manifest Destiny,’.505 

‘ Letters to Farmers,’.506 

SAMUEL L. CLEMENS {Mark Twain). 

A World-wide Reputation,.507 

Birth, Boyhood, and Education, . . . 507 

His Pilot Life. 5 °? 

Editor of the Virginia City Enterprise, 507 
Journalist and Gold-digger, .... 507 

A Trip to Hawaii, . 5°7 

‘ Innocents Abroad,’.507 


PAGE 

Some of His Other Works,.508 

A Lecturing Trip Around the World, . 508 

‘ Jim Smiley’s Frog,’.508 

‘ Uncle Dan’l’s Apjjarition and Prayer,’ 509 
‘ The Babies,’.511 

CHAS. FOLLEN ADAMS {Yawcob Strauss). 

A Not-soon-to-be-forgotten Author, . 512 

Birth, Education, and Early Life, . . 512 

Service in Many Hard-fought Battles, . 512 

Prominent Business Man,.512 

A Contributor to Prominent Journals, 512 
A Genial and Companionable Ma-', . 512 

‘ Der Drummer,’.513 

‘ Hans and Fritz,’ .513 

‘ Yawcob Strauss,’ .513 

‘ Mine Moder-in-Law,’ 514 



































28 


CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. 


EDGAR WILSON NYE {Bi//Nye). 

Birth and Early Surroundings, .... 515 

Studied Law, Admitted to the Bar, . . 515 

Organized the Nye Trust,.515 

Famous Letters from Buck’s Shoals, 

N. C.,.515 

‘ History of the United States,’ ... 516 

His Death, .516 

‘The Wild Cow,’.516 

‘ Mr. Whisk’s True Love,’.516 

‘ The Discovery of New York,’ . . . 517 

JOEL C. HARRIS (CZ/tc/e Remus). 

Birth and Humble Circumstances, . . 519 

In the Office of the ... 519 


Beginning of His Literary Career, . . 519 

Studied and Practised Law,.520 

Co-editor of the Atlanta Constitution, . 520 

His Works,.520 

‘ Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Fox, and Mr. Buz¬ 
zard,’ .520 

ROBERT J. BURDETTE. 

Birth and Early Education,.524 

Fought in the Civil War, ...... 524 

Journalist, Lecturer, and Baptist Min¬ 
ister, .524 

Contxihntor to Ladies' Home Journal, . 524 

His Other Works,.524 

‘ The Movement Cure for Rheumatism,’ 525 


PART IX. 

POPULAR WRITERS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 


LOUISA M. ALCOTT. 

Architect of Her Own Fortune, ... 527 

Her Early Writings,.527 

In the Government Hospitals, . . . . 528 

Her Books,.528 

An Admirer of Emerson,.528 

A Victim of Overwork, .529 

‘ How Joe Made Friends,’.529 

WILLIAM T. ADAMS {Oliver Optic). 

Writer for the Young,.531 

Birth and Early Life,.531 

Teacher in Public Schools,.531 

His Editorials and Books,.531 

His Style and Influence,.531 

‘ The Sloop That Went to the Bottom,’ 531 

HORATIO ALGER. 

His First Book a Great Success, . . . 533 

A New Field,.533 

Birth, Education, and Early Life, . . 533 


PAGE 

In New York,.533 

Some of His Most Prominent Books, . 534 

‘ How Dick Began the Day,’ .... 534 

EDWARD ELLIS. 

Birth and Early Life, ....... 536 

His Historical Text-books,.536 

His Contributions to Children’s Papers, 536 
‘ The Signal Fire,’.536 

SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT {Grace Green¬ 
wood) . 

Favorite Writer for Little Children, . 538 

Birth and Childhood,.538 

Her Marriage,.538 

Contributions to Journals and Maga¬ 
zines, .538 

Her Numerous Books,.538 

Life Abroad,.538 

‘ Baby in the Bath-tub,’.538 


































FAMOUS ENGLISH AUTHORS 


WHOSE WRITINGS AND BIOGRAPHIES APPEAR IN THIS VOLUME. 


Austin, Alfred. 

Barrie, James M. 

Besant, Sir Walter. 

Black, William. 

Bright, John. 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. 

Browning, Robert. 

Bulwer-Lytton, Edward (Lord). 

Burns, Robert. 

Byron, George Gordon (Lord). 

Caine, Thomas Hall. 

Carlyle, Thomas. 

Caxton, William. 

Chaucer, Geoffrey. 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. 

Collins, Wilkie. 

Coverdale, Miles. 

Cowper, William. 

Cranmer, Thomas. 

Defoe, Daniel. ' 

Dickens, Charles. 

Disraeli, Benjamin, Earl of Beaconsfield. 
Doyle, Arthur Conan. 

Drummond, Henry. 

Du Maurier, George. 

Eliot, George. 

Farrar, Frederick W. 

Froude, James A. 

Gibbon, Edward. 

Gladstone, William Ewart. 

(Goldsmith, Oliver. 

Gray, Thomas. 


Ingelow, Jean. 

Hemans, Felicia. 

Hood, Thomas. 

James I, King of England. 
Jonson, Ben. 

Johnson, Samuel. 

Kipling, Rudyard. 

Macaulay, Thomas B. 
MacDonald, George. 

Mandeville, Sir John. 

McCarthy, Justin. 

Milton, John. 

Moore, Thomas. 

Oliphant, Mrs. Margaret. 

Pitt, William, Earl of Chatham. 
Pope, Alexander. 

Ruskin, John. 

Scott, Sir Walter. 

Shakespeare, William. 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe. 

Spenser, Edmund. 

Spurgeon, Charles H. 

Stevenson, Robert Louis. 
Tennyson, Alfred (Lord). 
Thackeray, William Makepeace. 
Trollope, Anthony. 

Tyndale, William. 

Ward, Mrs. Humphry. 

Watson, John (^lan Afac/aren). 
Watts, Isaac. 

Wordsworth, William. 

Wyclif, John. 


29 




FAMOUS AMERICAN AUTHORS 

WHOSE WRITINGS AND BIOGRAPHIES APPEAR IN THIS VOLUME. 


Adams, Charles Follen ( Yawcob Strauss). 
Adams, Wm. T. (^Oliver Optic). 

Alcott, Louisa May. 

Alger, Horatio, Jr. 

Bancroft, George H. 

Barr, Amelia E. 

Bill Nyc {Edgar Wilson Nv'). 

Bryant, William Cullen. 

Burdett, Robert J. 

Burnett, Frances Hodgson. 

Carleton, Will. 

Cary, Alice. 

Cary, Phoebe. 

Clemens, Samuel L. (^Mark Tivain). 

Cooper, James Fenimo^"*. 

Craddock, Charles Egbert {Mary N. Murfree). 
Davis, Richard Harding. 

Eggleston, Edward. 

Ellis, Edward. 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 

Field, Eugene. 

Grace Greenwood {Sarah J. Lippincott). 

Hale, Edward Everett. 

Harris, Joel Chandler {Uncle Remus). 

Harte, Bret. 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. 

Higginson, Thomas Wentworth. 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 

Howells, William Deap. 

Ik Marvel {Donald G. Mitchell). 

Irving, Washington. 


Jackson, Helen Hunt. 

Joaquin Miller {Cincinnatus Heine ^Filler). 
Josh Billings {Henry IV. Slunv). 

Larcom, Lucy. 

Lippincott, Sarah Jane {Grace Greenwood). 
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. 

Lowell, James Russell. 

Mabie, Hamilton W. 

Mark Twain {Samuel L. Clemens). 

Marion Harland {Mary V. Terhune). 

Miller, Cincinnatus Heine {Joaquin). 
Mitchell, Donald Grant {Ik Afarvel). 

Motley, John L. 

Moulton, Louise Chandler. 

Murfree, Mary N. ( Chas. Egbert Craddock). 
Nye, Edgar Wilson {Bill ATye). 

Oliver Optic {William T. Adams). 

Parton, James. 

Poe, Edgar Allen. 

Prescott, William H. 

Riley, James Whitcomb. 

Shaw, Henry W. {Josh Billings). 

Sigourney, Lydia H. 

Smith, Elizabeth Oakes. 

Stedman, Edmund Clarence. 

Stowe, Harriet Beecher. 

Terhune, Mary Virginia. 

Wallace, General Lew. 

Warner, Charles Dudley. 

Whittier, John Greenleaf. 




SELECTIONS SUITABLE FOR RECITATION. 

ARRANGED ALPHABETICALLY. 


PAGE 

Act for Truth,.347 

Alpine Flowers, The,.424 

Apostrophe to the Ocean, . 97 

Babies, The,.511 

Bardell Pickwick,.175 

Barefoot Boy, The,.328 

Battlefield, The,. .. 295 

Bells, The,.300 

Betsy and I are Out, .362 

Boat Song, .164 

Book, The, .127 

Books and Their Uses,.139 

Break, Break, Break, .123 

Bridge of Sighs, The,.107 

Bruce to His Men,. 88 

Bugle Song,.123 

Butterfly on a Child’s Grave, A,.425 

Chambered Nautilus, The,.339 

Character of Roger Williams,.488 

Christmas Night at St. Peter’s.411 

Columbus,.424 

Columbus at Barcelona,.443 

Cotter’s Saturday Night, The,. 88 

Cry of the Human, The,.253 

Death of an Infant,.425 

Death of Little Nell, .180 

Der Drummer,.513 

Deserted Village, The,. 81 

Destruction of Sennacherib,. 97 

Dickens in Camp,.356 

Discovery of New York, The,.517 

Dutch Lullaby, A,.359 

Emerson and the Emersonites,.383 

Encounter with a Panther,.375 

Evelyn Hope,.126 

Eve of Battle, The,. 95 

Excelsior,.311 

First Christmas Carol, The,.146 

Fourth-of-July Ode,.348 

Garden Song,.124 

Golden Year, The,.128 

Gone With a Handsomer Man,.363 

Greatness of St. Paul, The,.144 

Hannah Binding Shoes,. 43 ° 


PAGE 

Hans and Fritz,.513 

Here and the Hereafter, T'he,.121 

House Beautiful, The,.216 

How Jo Made Friends,.529 

Hymn Sung at the Completion of the Con¬ 
cord Monument (1836),.320 

Ideal Honeymoon, An,.m 

If There Were Dreams to Sell,.436 

Imaginary Verses of Alexander Selkirk, . . 91 

Incendiarism in Ireland,.276 

Isles of Greece, The,. 96 

Jim Smiley’s Frog,.508 

Jubilee Hymn,.234 

Kit Carson’s Ride,.369 

Land of the East, The,. 95 

I^etters to Farmers,.506 

Manifest Destiny,.505 

Mine Moder-in-law,.514 

Moral Qualities of Vegetables, T'he, . . . 449 

Movement Cure for Rheumatism, The, . . 525 

Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Fox, and Mr. Buzzard, . . 520 

My Mother’s Picture,.437 

Necessity and Dignity of Labor, The, . . 167 

Niagara,.424 

Night in June, .A,.129 

Norse Lullaby, The,.360 

Ode to a Skylark,. 93 

Ode to Duty, .115 

Old Ironsides,.338 

Old Virginia, .492 

On Slavery,. 91 

Organ of Westminster Abbey, The, ... 442 

Other World, The.407 

Our Hired Girl,.'. . . . 352 

Our Immortality,.113 

Our Two Opinions,.359 

Parting of Marmion and Douglas, .... 162 

Pearl,.383 

Phantom Ship, The,.100 

Pictures of Memory,.433 

Prelude to In Memoriam,.119 

Puritan Sunday Morning, A,.484 

I 





















































































32 


SELECTIONS SUITABLE FOR RECITATION. 


PAGE 

Raggedy Man, The,.352 

Raven, The,.302 

Ride from Ghent to Aix, The,.125 

Ring Out, Wild Bells,.119 

Sam Weller’s Valentine,.182 

Sensitive Plant, The,., . 92 

Seven Times One,.268 

Seven Times Two, . 268 

Seven Times Three,.268 

Seven Times Five, .269 

Siege of Leyden, The,.502 

Sleep, The,.254 

Society Upon the Stanislaus,.355 

Soldier, Rest,.164 

Song of the Brook, The,.118 

Song of the Shirt, The,.105 


PAGE 

Speech on the Corn-laws,.275 

Spelling Down the Schoolmaster, .... 397 

Tam O’ Shanter,. 87 

To a Skylark, .114 

To a Waterfowl,.292 

Traveler, The,. 80 

Truth of Intercourse,.215 

Uncle Dan’l’s Apparition and Prayer, . . . 509 

Venetian Vagabonds,.391 

Village Preacher, The,. 81 

Wreck of the Hesperus, The,.312 

Yawcob Strauss, .513 
































PIONEERS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

■ SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE, GEOFFREY CHAUCER, 

The Father of English Prose. The First Great Poet of England. 

That renowned Poet, 

Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled 
On Fame’s eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.— Spenser. 

T was not until the fourteenth century that there began to be, in 
any true sense, an English language. Until this time the 
Norman-French of the nobles and the Saxon of the lower 
orders had marked the differences of thought and feeling 
between the conquerors and the conquered race, but gradually 
they were coming to be one people, and their union is well 
indicated by the changes of language which resulted in our 
mother-tongue. This fusion of language has been well described by Sir Walter 
Scott in the opening chapter of “Ivanhoe.” The Saxon swineherd and Wamba, 
the jester, are talking of their hardships: 

“Why, how call you those grunting brutes running about on their four legs?” demanded 
Wamba. 

“ Swine, fool, swine,” said the herd ; “ every fool knows that.” 

“And swine is good, Saxon,” said the jester; “but how call you the sow when she is flayed 
and drawn and quartered, and hung up by the heels like a traitor ? ” 

“ Pork,” answered the swineherd. 

“I am very glad every fool knows that, too,” said Wamba, “and pork, I think, is good Norman- 
French ; and so when the brute lives, and is in charge of a Saxon slave, she goes by her Saxon name; 
but becomes a Norman, and is called pork, when she is carried to the castle-hall to feast among the 
nobles; what dost thou think of this, friend Gurth, ha?” 

“It is but too true doctrine, friend Wamba, however it got into a fool’s pate! ” 

“ Now I can tell you more,” said Wamba, in the same tone ; “ there is old Alderman Ox con¬ 
tinues to hold his Saxon epithet while he is under the charge of serfs and bondsmen such as thou, 
but becomes Beef, a fiery French gallant, when he arrives before the worshipful jaws that are destined 
to consume him. Mynheer Calf, too, becomes Monsieur de Veau in the like manner; he is Saxon 
when he requires tendance, and takes a Norman name when he becomes matter of enjoyment.” 

It was in just such ways as are here outlined that the two elements of Saxon 
and Norman formed one language. There had been poetry in England before 
3 33 















34 


PIONEERS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 


the Norman conquest, and the names of Caedmon and Bede have come down to 
us, with fragments of their writings in what is, to us, an entirely foreign tongue ; 
but until the passage of three centuries had molded the people into one, giving 
them common thoughts and a common speech, there could be no real English 
literature. Sir John Mandeville has been called, whether rightly or not, the father 
of English prose. His book of travels, published about 1356, may properly, per¬ 
haps, be called the earliest English book. It is an account of the author’s experi¬ 
ences in his travels, which occupied thirty-four years, and carried him over many 
parts of the world. Some of the stories are absurd in the extreme ; but as few 
Englishmen had traveled abroad they were very generally accepted as true, and 
were so popular that of no book excepting the Scriptures can more manuscripts 

of that time be found. 

In one of the ex¬ 
tracts which we quote it 
will be seen that ^lande- 
ville recognized the con¬ 
fusion of tongues in his 
native country, and there¬ 
fore wrote his book in 
Latin and French and 
English, so that every 
man might understand it. 

But the real father 
of English literature was 
Geoffrey Chaucer. His 
respect for English may 
be inferred from the lines 
in the “Testament of 
Love” : “ Let clerks indite 
in Latin, and the French¬ 
men in their French also 
indite their quaint terms, 
for it is kindly to their 
mouths : and let us show 
our fantasies in such words as we learned of our mother’s tongue.” He was the 
first to honor the English language by framing in it a great literary masterpiece, 
and his service to posterity is not only this contribution to literature and the 
impulse he gave to literary effort: he, more than any other, helped to fix the forms 
of the language, and, singular as his words may now appear, to inaugurate a definite 
spelling. It was only the beginning of this movement, which the invention of printing 
was to carry rapidly forward,—but to Chaucer belongs very much of the credit. 

Chaucer was attached to the court in some way, probably during most of his 
life. We know that he filled several public offices ; that he was sent on some 
commission to Italy ; that he married the sister of the wife of John of Gaunt, and 
was identified with the party of the Duke of Lancaster. He was appointed clerk 
of the king’s works in 1389, which office he held only for two years. His death 






























nONEERS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 


35 


took place in 1400, when he was probably something over seventy years of age. 
His principal poems are the “ Romaunt of the Rose,” the “Court of Love,” the 
“Assembly of Fowls,” the “Cuckoo and the Nightingale,” the “Flower and the 
Leaf,” “ Chaucer’s Dream,” the " Boke of the Duchesse,” the “ House of Fame,” 
the “ Legende of Goode Women,” “ Troilus and Creseide,” “Anelydu and 
Arcyte,” and the unique “Canterbury Tales,” by which he is most known, and 
which is now by far the most read of all his works. This has furnished the plan 
upon which many later poets have built their work. It is the story of a company 
of “ wel and nyne twenty” pilgrims to the shrine of St. Thomas of Canterbury, gath¬ 
ering at the “hostelrie” of the Tabard Inn at Southwark, They come together by 
accident, and agree to travel together for purposes of good cheer and defense. 
Here are the host of the Tabard, who suggests that they beguile the way by each 
relating a story,—a knight, a squire, a yeoman, a prioress, a nun, three priests, a 
monk, a friar, a merchant, a clerk or student, and the rest—representing all the 
different classes or kinds of persons who made up the English people. 

The stories they told and the charming setting in which they are placed, 
makes this the masterpiece of early English. 




FROM THE PROLOGUE 1 

|ND for als moche’ as it is longe tynie passed, 

I that ther was no generalle Passage ne 
Vyage over the See; and many Men de¬ 
siren for to here speke of the holy Lond, and 
han^ thereof gret Solace and Comfort; I John 
Maundevylle, Knyght, alle be it I be not worthi, 
that was born in Englond, in the Town of Seynt 
yVlbones, passed the See, in the Zeer of our Lord 
Jesu Crist MCCCXXII, in the Day of Seynt 
Michelle; and hidre to® have been longe tyme 
over the See, and have seyn and gon thorghe 
manye dyverse Londes, and many Provynces and 
Kingdomes and lies, and have passed thorghe 
Tartarye, Percye, Ermonye ‘ the litylle and the 
grete; thorghe Lybye, Caldee and a gret jiartie 
of Ethiope; thorghe Amazoyne, Inde the lasse 
and the more, a gret partie; and thorghe out 
many othere lies, that ben abouten Inde ; where 
dwellen many dyverse Folkes, and of dyverse 
Maneres and Lawes, and of dyverse Schappes® of 
men. Of whiche Londes and lies, I schalle speke 
more pleynly hereaftre. And 1 schalle devise zou 
sum partie of thinges that there ben, whan time 
1 As much. 2 Have. ® Hitherto. ^ Armenia. ® Shapes. 


’O MAXDEVILLE’S BOOK. 

schalle ben, aftre it may best come to my mynde ; 
and specyally for hem, that wylle and are in pur- 
pos for to visite the Holy Citee of Jerusalem, and 
the holy Places that are thereaboute. And 1 
schalle telle the Weye, that thei schulle holden 
thidre. For I have often tymes passed and ryden ® 
the way, with gode Companye of many Lordes: 
God be thonked. 

And zee schulle Gindirstonde, that I have put 
this Boke out of Latyn into Frensche, and trans¬ 
lated it azen*out of Frensche into Englyssche, 
that every Man of my Nacioun may undirstonde 
it. But Lordes and Knyghtes and othere noble 
and worthi Men, that conne® Latyn but litylle, 
and han ben bezonde the See, knowen and undir- 
stonden, zif I erre in devisynge, for forzetynge,“ 
or elles " ; that thei mowe redresse it and amende 
it. For thinges passed out of longe tyme from a 
Mannes mynde or from his syght, turnen sone in 
forzetynge : Because that Mynde of Man ne may 
not ben comprehended ne witheholden, for the 
Freeltee of Mankynde. 

® Ridden. ’’ Should. * Again. ® Know. 

1 ® Forgetting. i^Else. May. 








36 


PIONEERS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 


THE CHINESE. 


■jHE gret Kyng hathe every day, 50 fair 
I Damyseles, alle Maydenes, that serven 
him everemore at his Mete. And wlian 
he is at the Table, thei bryngen him hys 
Mete at every tyme, 5 and 5 to gedre. And 
in bryngynge hire Servyse, thei syngen a 
Song. And aftre that, thei kutten his Mete, 
and putten it in his Mouthe: for he touch- 
ethe no thing ne handlethe nought, but holdethe 
evere more his Hondes before him, upon the Table. 
For he hathe so longe Nayles, that he may take no 
thing, ne handle no thing. For the Noblesse of 
that Contree is to have longe Nayles, and to make 
hem growen alle weys to ben as longe as men may. 
And there ben man ye in that Contree, that han 
hire Nayles so longe, that thei envyronne alle the 
Hond: and that is a gret Noblesse. And the 


Noblesse of the Women, is for to haven smale 
Feet and litille: and therfore anon as thei ben 
born, they leet bynde hire Feet so streyte, that 
thei may not growen half as nature wolde: And 
alle weys .theise Damyseles, that I spak of beforn, 
syngen alle the tyme that this riche man etethe; 
and when that he etethe no more of his firste 
Cours, thanne other 5 and 5 of faire Damyseles 
bryngen him his seconde Cours, alle weys 
syngynge, as thei dide beforn. And so thei don 
contynuelly every day, to the ende of his Mete. 
And in this manere he ledethe his Lif. And so 
dide thei before him, that weren his Auncestres ; 
and so schulle thei that comen aftre him, with 
outen doynge of ony Dedes of Armes : but lyven 
evere more thus in ese, as a Swyn, that is fedde in 
Sty, for to ben made fatte. 



-- 

FROM THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES. * 


■^HANNE that Aprile with his shoures sote' 
The droughte of March hath perced to 
the rote,* 

And bathed every veine in swiche ® licour. 

Of whiche vertue engendred is the flour ; 

Whan Zephirus eke with his sote brethe 
Enspired hath in every holt and hethe 
The tendre croppes, and the yongd sonne 
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,* 

And smale foules maken melodic. 

That slepen alle night with open eye. 

So priketh hem ® nature in hir ® corages ; ^ 

Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages. 

And palmeres for to seken strange strondes. 

To serve® halweys® coulhe in sondry londes ; 
And specially, from every shires ende 
Of Englelond, to Canterbury they wende,“ 

The holy blisful martyr for to seke. 

That hem hath holpen, whan that they were 
seke.^* 

Befelle, that, in that seson on a day, 

^ Sweet. * Root. ^ Such. * Run. ® Them. 

* Their. ^ Inclination. ® To keep. * Holidays. 

10 Known. ^^Go. ^^sick. 


In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 

Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage 
To Canterbury with devoute corage. 

At night was come into that hostelrie 
Wei nine and twenty in a campagnie 
Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle 
In felawship, and pilgrimes were they alle. 

That toward Canterbury wolden ride. 

The chambres and the stables weren wide. 

And wel we weren esed atte beste. 

And shortly, whan the sonne was gon to reste, 
So hadde I spoken with hem everich on 
That I was of hir felawship anon. 

And made forword erly for to rise. 

To take oure way ther as I you devise. 

But natheles, wTile I have time and space, 

Or that I forther in this tale pace. 

Me thinketh it accordant to reson. 

To tellen you alle the condition 
Of eche of hem, so as it semed me. 

And whiche they weren, and of what degre ; 
And eke in what araie that they were inne : 

And at a knight than wol I firste beginne. 

Fallen. Would. Everyone. 



* Little difficulty will be experienced in reading Chaucer if it is borne in mind that many words derived from the 
French were, in his time, given their French pronunciation, and that final e and iffl' are almost always separate syllables. 















. . . 


= 5 
E t 

E fi 

it 

= g 

P (?) 0 If, (f) 00 0 0 0 0 f) t) t) 'W1 r) r) y) f) (T) t') <f) ^ f) h F'l fr) If , 

23 = 

iir? 

D ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 3 






PRINTING AND THE BIBLE. 


WILLIAM CAXTON, 
JOHN WYCLIF, 
WILLIAM TYNDALE, 


MILES COVERDALE, 
THOMAS CRANMER, 
JAMES I, King of England. 


HE two events which were of greatest moment in familiarizing the 
English people with the forms of their language, and in making these 
forms permanent, were the introduction of printing and the trans¬ 
lation of the Bible. 

To William Caxton belongs the credit of setting up the first 
printing press in England. In 1455 Gutenberg had printed a 
Latin Bible in Germany, but the first book to issue from Caxton’s 
press was entitled the “Game and Playe of Chesse,” and was published in 1491. 
Caxton printed ninety-nine books, most of them in English, partly translations 
and pai;tly original works. He wrote a great many prefaces and translated a 
number of books, and may fairly be said to hold a real place in the history of 
English literature, aside from the unique service which he rendered it in estab¬ 
lishing printing in England. 

As soon as the inauguration of printing made it easy for the general public 
to be possessed of books there was a great and general demand for the English 
Bible. More than a century had elapsed since John Wyclif had translated the 
Book of Books into his mother-tongue. This remarkable man, who was the first 
to open the whole Scriptures to those of his countrymen who could not read Latin, 
was of almost equal importance in the literary and political history of his country. 
He attained to a position of considerable influence, but, being abandoned by his 
great friends, lost all his preferments. It was now that he began his translation 
of the Bible, which he completed about the year 1380. 

A hundred years later such changes had been wrought in the language that few 
Englishmen could read the Wyclif version. The nation was agitated upon reli¬ 
gious subjects, and The Reformation was about to dawn, when William Tyndale, an 
Oxford graduate of great learning, undertook to provide a translation of the Bible, 
not from the Latin, as was Wyclif’s, but from the original Hebrew and Greek. 

The spirit of the English clergy and Tyndale’s determination are well shown 
in the story of his encounter with a popish divine. His argument in favor of a 
Bible which could be read by the common people was so conclusive that, unable 

37 





























38 


PRINTING AND THE BIBLE. 


to answer him, his opponent exclaimed, We had better be without God’s law than 
the Pope’s.” Tyndale’s indignant reply was, “ I defy the Pope and all his laws ; 
and if God gives me life, ere many years the ploughboys of England shall know 
more of the Scriptures than you do.” And he kept his word. He was com¬ 
pelled to become an exile to accomplish his task, and in 1526 he printed in 
Antwerp a New Testament in English. Great numbers of copies were imported 
into England, though the importers were prosecuted, and the author, after being 
compelled to remain in hiding while he prepared a new edition of his great work, 
especially adapted to agricultural laborers and other ignorant classes, was finally 
betrayed by spies of Henry VIII, and sentenced to the dreadful penalty of burning 
at the stake. The prayer embodied in his last words, “ O Lord, open the King 
of England’s eyes,” met with early fulfilment, for almost immediately the capricious 
tyrant ordered that the Bible should be placed in every church for the free use of 
the people. 

Besides the New Testament, Tyndale had translated the five books of Moses 
and the book of Job. 

The battle was now won. In 1535 Miles Coverdale, Bishop of Exeter, pub¬ 
lished the first printed edition of the whole Bible in English. John Rogers, who 
had been a co-worker with Tyndale, was the real translator, though a fictitious 
name was given in the book. In 1540 this same Bible, bearing a preface by Arch¬ 
bishop Cranmer, and hence known by his name, was authorized as the only version 
of the Scriptures to be used in the English Church. From “ Cranmer’s Bible” 
were taken the passages of Scripture used in the English prayer-book. It lacked 
the simplicity and energy of Tyndale’s version, but continued in general use until, 
early in the following century. King James I assembled a-company of forty-seven 
of the greatest scholars in the land, who prepared the most remarkable of all 
Bible translations, the “Authorized Version,” which holds its place in the hearts of 
the English-speaking people until the present time. 

Scholars have not ceased to frame new translations, and the “ Revised Ver¬ 
sion,” published, the New Testament in 1881 and the Old Testament in 1885, 
although correcting many manifest errors, has not yet been able to displace the 
great work which has been the main text-book for the spiritual instruction of the 
English-speaking people for nearly three centuries. 






MATTHEW, CHAPTER V. 
From Wyclif's Bible. 


ND Jhesus seynge the peple, went up into an 
hil; and whanne he was sett, his disciplis 
camen to him. And he openyde his 
mouthe, and taughte hem ; and seide, Blessid be 
pore men in spirit; for the kyngdom of hevenes 
is herun. Blessid ben mylde men: for thei 
schulenweelde the erthe. Blessid ben thei that 


mournen ; for thei schal be coumfortid. Blessid 
be thei that hungren and thirsten rightwisnesse : 
for thei schal be fulfilled. Blessed ben merciful 
men : for they schul gete mercy. Blessed ben 
thei that ben of dene herte : for thei schulen se 
God. Blessid ben pesible men ; for they schulen 
be clepid goddis children. Blessid ben thei that 








PRINTING AND THE BIBLE. 


39 


suffien persecucion for rightwisnesse: for the 
kyndgoin of hevenes is hern. Ye schul be blessid 
whanne men schul curse you, and schul pursue 
you : and schule seye al yvel agens you liynge for 
me. Joie ye and be ye glade : for your meede is 
plenteous in hevenes : for so thei han pursued also 
prophetis that weren bifore you. Ye ben salt of 
the erthe, that if the salt vanishe awey wherynne 
schal it be salted ? to nothing it is worth over, no 
but it be cast out, and be defoulid of men. Ye 
ben light of the world, a citee set on an hill may 
not be hid. Ne men teendith not a lanterne and 
puttith it undir a bushel : but on a candilstik that 


it give light to alle that ben in the hous. So, 
schyne your light bifore men, that thei see youre 
gode workis, and glorifie your fadir that is in 
hevenes. Nyle ghe deme that I cam to undo the 
Lawe or the prophetis, I cam not to undo the 
lawe but to fulfille. Forsothe I sey to you till 
hevene and erthe passe, oon lettre, or oon title, 
schal not passe fro the Lawe til alle thingis be don. 
Therefore he that brekith oon of these leeste 
maundementis, and techith thus men, schal be 
clepid the Leest in the rewme of hevenes: but 
he that doth, and techith, schal be clepid greet in 
the kyngdom of hevenes. 


PARABLE OF THE GOOD SAMARITAN. 
From Tyndale’s New Testament. 


ND marke' A Certayne Lawere stode vp' 
and tempted hym sayinge : Master what 
shall I do'to inheret eternall lyfe? He 
sayd vnto him: What ys written in the lawe? 
Howe redest thou ? And he answered and sayde : 
Thou shalt love thy lorde god' wyth all thy hert' 
and wyth all thy soule'and with all thy strengthe' 
and wyth all thy mynde; and thy neighbour as 
thy sylfe. And he sayd vnto hym: Thou hast 
answered right. This do and thou shalt live. 
He willynge to iustifie hym sylfe' sayde vnto 
Jesus : Who ys then my neighbour ? 

Jesus answered and sayde : A certayne man de¬ 
scended from Jerusalem into Jericho' And fell 
into the hondes off theves' whych robbed hym off 
his rayment and wonded hym' and departed lev- 
ynge hym halfe deed. And yt chaunsed that there 
cam a certayne preste that same waye' and sawe 


hym' and passed by. And lyke wyse a levite 
when he was come neye to the place' went and 
loked on hym and passed by. Then a certayne 
Samaritane as he iornyed cam neye vnto hym and 
behelde hym and had compassion on hym and 
cam to hym and bounde vppe hys wondes and 
poured in wyne and oyle and layed him on his 
beaste and brought hym to a common hostry and 
drest him. And on the morowe when he departed 
he toke out two pence and gave them to the host 
and said vnto him. Take care of him and whatso¬ 
ever thou spendest above this when I come agayne 
I will recompence the. Which nowe of these thre 
thynkest thou was neighbour unto him that fell 
into the theves hondes? And he answered: He 
that shewed mercy on hym. Then sayd Jesus 
vnto hym. Goo and do thou lyke wyse. 



-. 0 ^ 0 *- 


MATTHEW’S GOSPEL, CHAPTER VIIL 
From Tyndale’s New Testament. 


'HEN Jesus was come downe from the moun- 
I tayne, moch people followed him. And 
lo, there cam a lepre, and worsheped him 
saynge. Master, if thou wylt, thou canst make me 
dene. He putt forthe his bond and touched him 
saynge: I will, be dene, and immediatly his 


leprosy was clensed. And Jesus said vnto him. 
Se thou tell no man, but go and shewe thysilf to 
the preste and offer the gyfte, that Moses com- 
maunded to be offred, in witness to them. When 
Jesus was entered in to Capernaum, there cam 
vnto him a certayne Centurion, besechyng him 












40 


PRINTING AND THE BIBLE. 


And saynge : Master, my servaunt lyeth sicke att 
home off the palsye, and is grevously payned. 
And Jesus sayd vnto’him. I will come and cure 
him. The Centurion answered and saide: Syr I 
am not worthy that thou shuldest com vnder the 
rofe of my housse, but speake the worde only and 
my servaunt shalbe healed. For y also my selfe am 
a man vndre power, and have sowdeeres vndre 
me, and y saye to one, go, and he goeth; and to 
anothre, come, and he cometh: and to my ser¬ 
vaunt, do this, and he doeth it. When Jesus 
herde these saynges; he marveyled, and said to 


them that followed him ; Verely y say vnto you, 
I have not founde so great fayth ; no, not in 
Israeli. I say therfore vnto you, that many shall 
come from the eest and weest, and shall rest with 
Abraham, Ysaac and Jacob, in the kyngdom of 
heven : And the children of the kingdom shalbe 
cast out in to the vtmoost dercknes, there shalbe 
wepinge andgnasshing of tethe. Then Jesus said 
vnto the Centurion, go thy waye, and as thou hast 
believed so be it vnto the. And his servaunt was 
healed that same houre. 


-ofo- 


THE TWO MASTERS OF ARTS. 

Told by Caxton at the End of ^sor’s Fables. 


()W then I will finish all these fables with 
this tale that followeth, which a wor¬ 
shipful priest and a parson told me late : 
He said that there were dwelling at Oxenford two 
priests, both Masters of Arts—of whom that one 
was quick and could put himself forth ; and that 
other was a good simple priest. And so it hap- 
jjened that the master that was pert and quick was 
anon promoted to a benefice or twain, and after 
to prebends, and for to be a dean of a great prince 
o’ chapel, supposing and weening that his fellow, 
the simple priest, should never be promoted, but 
be always an annual, or, at the most, a parish 
priest. So after a long time that this worshipful 
man, this dean, came running into a good parish 
with five or seven horses, like a prelate, and came 
into the church of the said parish, and found there 
this good simple man, sometime his fellow, which 
came and welcomed him lowly. And that other 
bade him “Good morrow. Master John,” and 
took him slightly by the hand, and axed him 
where he dwelt.—And the good man said, “In 
this parish,” “How,” said he, “are ye here a 
sole priest, or a parish priest?” “Nay, sir,” 
said he, “ for lack of a better, though I be not 
able nor worthy, I am parson and curate of this 


parish.” And then that other vailed [lowered] 
his bonnet, and said, “ Master Parson, I pray you 
to be not displeased; I had supposed ye had not 
been beneficed. But, master,” said he, “I pray 
you what is this benefice worth to you a year ? ” 
“Forsooth,” said the good simple man, “I wot 
never; for I never make accompts thereof, how 
well I have had it four or five years.” “And 
know ye not,” said he, “what is it worth?—it 
should seem a good benefice.” “ No, forsooth,” 
said he, “ but I wot well what it shall be worth 
to me.” “Why,” said he, “what shall it be 
worth ? ” “ Forsooth,” said he, “ if I do my true 

dealing in the cure of my parishes in preaching 
and teaching, and do my part belonging to my 
cure, I shall have heaven therefore. And if their 
souls be lost, or any of them, by my default, I 
shall be punished therefore. And hereof I am 
sure.” . And with that word the rich dean was 
abashed : and thought he should be the better, 
and take more heed to his cures and benefices than 
he had done. This was a good answer of a good 
priest and an honest. And herewith I finish this 
book, translated and imprinted by me, William 
Caxton. 

















i 



































EDMUND SPENSER. 

ILLUSTRIOUS AUTHOR OF “THE FAERIE QUEENE.” 

WO centuries had passed since the time of Chaucer before England 
could boast of a poet worthy to succeed the author of the “ Can¬ 
terbury Tales.” and Edmund Spenser is the only non-dramatic 
poet of the Elizabethan age whose works can be compared with 
the best that a later time has produced. 

He was born in London, of poor parents, about 1553, and 
was educated as a charity student at Cambridge. He spent two 
years with relatives in the north of England, where he wrote the “ Shepherd’s 
Calendar.” He was now invited by a college friend to London, and was 
introduced to Sir Philip Sidney, who treated him with great kindness, and 
encouraged his literary ambition. He revised his poem, and, calling it the 
“Poet’s Year,” dedicated it to Sidney. He was finally brought to the notice 
of Queen Elizabeth, and received an appointment in Ireland in 1580. Some 
years later he was granted Kilcolman Castle, with some three thousand acres 
of confiscated land near Cork. Here he composed most of his poems. 

In 1590 Spenser was visited by Sir Walter Raleigh, and with him went to 
England. In 1594 he was married to a certain Elizabeth (surname unknown), 
of lowly origin. “She was certes but a country lasse,” but “so sweet, so 
lovely, and so mild.” In 1598 Tyrone’s Rebellion broke out in southern 
Ireland, No English residents were safe, and Spenser had, as sheriff of Cork, 
somehow rendered himself particularly obnoxious. His castle was attacked, and 
set on fire, and his wife and child perished in the fiames. Spenser returned to 
England, but survived his troubles only until the first of the following year, when 
he died. His remains found a fitting resting-place near the tomb of Chaucer, 
in Westminster Abbey. Beside the “Shepherd’s Calendar,” his principal poems 
are the “ Epithalamion,” “The Faerie Queene,” a collection of lesser poems, 
entitled “Complaints,” and four “Hymns.” He also wrote in prose a “View 
of Ireland.” Spenser’s fame, however, rests upon “The Faerie Queene'.” This 
is described as the latest and most brilliant poetical expression of the sentiments 
of chivalry. It was dedicated to Queen Elizabeth, and was intended to typify 
her and her splendid reign. It is composed of six books, though twelve were 
intended. Each book was to represent a virtue, portrayed in the person and 
adventures of a knight. 

The several allegorical characters, beside representing virtues, personated 
historic characters; thus, the “Faerie Queene” symbolizes Elizabeth, and the 

41 






















42 


EDMUND IjPENiiER. 


Queen of Scots, the Catholic Church, and the Church of England, among 
many others, are nobly, if somewhat obscurely, symbolized. 

Spenser is now very little read, but in every age there will be some who 
will say with Pope: “ There is something in Spenser that pleases one as 

strongly in one’s old age as it did in one’s youth.” 



AT THE 
From “ The : 

m PEN the temple gates unto my love, 

Open them wide that she may enter in, 
And all the posts adorn as doth behove. 
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim, 

For to receive this saint with honour due. 

That Cometh in to you. 

With trembling steps, and humble reverence. 

She cometh in, before the Almighty’s view ; 

Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience. 

When so ye come into those holy places. 

To humble your proud faces : 

P>ring her up to the high altar, that she may 
The sacred ceremonies there partake, 

T'he which do endless matrimony make ; 

-And let the roaring organs loudly play 
The praises of the Lord in lively notes; 

The whiles, with hollow throats. 

The choristers with joyous anthem sing. 

That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring. 

-•C 

UNA AND 
From “The Faeri 

NE day, nigh weary of the irksome way. 
From her unhasty beast she did alight; 

And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay 
In secret shadow, far from all men’s sight; 

From her fair head her fillet she undight. 

And laid her stole aside ; her angel’s face. 

As the great eye of heaven, shined bright. 

And made a sunshine in the shady place ; 

Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace. 

It fortuned, out of the thickest wood 
A ramping lion rushed suddenly. 

Hunting full greedy after salvage blood. 

Soon as the royal virgin he did spy. 

With gaping mouth at her ran greedily. 

To have at once devoured her tender corse ; 

But to the prey when as he drew more nigh, 

His bloody rage assuaged with remorse, 

And, with the sight amazed, forgot his furious 
force. 


ALTAR. 

■ITHALAMION.” 

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, 
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks. 

And blesseth her with his two happy hands. 

How the red roses flush up in her cheeks, 

And the pure snow, with goodly vermeil stain. 
Like crimson dyed in grain; 

That even the angels, which continually 
About the sacred altar do remain, 

Forget their service, and about her fly. 

Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair. 

The more they on it stare. 

But her,sad eyes, still fastened on the ground. 

Are governed with goodly modesty. 

That suffers not one look to glance awry. 

Which may let in a little thought unsound. 

Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand 
The pledge of all our band ? 

Sing, ye sweet angels, alleluja sing. 

That all the woods may answer, and your echo 
ring. 

)•- 

THE LION. 

Queene,” Book I. 

Instead thereof he kissed her weary feet. 

And licked her lily hands with fawning tongue. 
As he her wronged innocence did weet. 

Oh, how can beauty master the most strong, . 
And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! 
Whose yielded pride and proud submission. 

Still dreading death, when she had marked long. 
Her heart ’gan melt in great compassion ; 

And drizzling tears did shed for pure affection. 

“The lion, lord of every beast in field,” 

Quoth she, “ his princely puissance doth abate. 
And mighty proud to humble weak doth yield. 
Forgetful of the hungry rage which late 
Him pricked, in pity of my sad estate. 

But he, my lion, and my noble lord. 

How does he find in cruel heart to hate 
Her that him loved, and ever most adored 
As the god of my life? Why hath he me ab¬ 
horred?” 











THE GREATEST ENGLISH POET. 

“ He was the man who, of all modern and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All 
the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them, not laboriously, but luckily : when he describes any¬ 
thing, you more than see it—you feel it, too. Those who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him the greater 
commendation: he was naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature ; he looked inwards and 
found her there.”— Dryden. 

E know almost nothing of the details of the life of William Shake¬ 
speare. He was born at Stratford-on-Avon, perhaps on April 23, 
1564. The precise day of his birth is not fixed with certainty, but 
as he was baptized on April 26, the date traditionally assigned is 
at least approximately correct. The authenticated facts in the 
life of Shakespeare may be very briefly told. His father was an 
apparently well-to-do tradesman—a wool-comber or glover—but 
there is evidence that he fell into reduced circumstances while his son was yet a 
boy. William Shakespeare, the eldest son who survived childhood, was sent to the 
grammar school at Stratford, where, according to Ben Jonson, he acquired “small 
Latin and less Greek,” There is no evidence that he was ever able to read easily 
or to speak any language except his own. Tradition says that he was for a time an 
assistant in his father’s shop. But of the youth and early manhooci of Shakespeare 
nothing is known, except that six months before he had entered upon his nineteenth 
year he was hastily married to Anne Hathaway, a woman some seven years his 
senior, whose home was at Shottery, a village near-by Stratford; and that within 
eighteen months, first a daughter, and then a boy and a girl, twins, were born 
to them. 

When about twenty-three Shakespeare left Stratford for London. Tradition 
says that this departure was somehow connected with his having been arrested for 
deerstealing in the park of Sir Thomas Lucy. He soon became connected with 
the Metropolitan theater. One tradition has it that he got his living for a while by 

43 


















44 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


holding tlie horses of gentlemen at the door of the theater ; another has it that he 
was for a while stage-prompter. There is good reason to believe that these stories 
are entire fabrications ; for within less than half-a-dozen years we find incidental 
mention made of him, showing that he was already known as a man of parts, and 
of good social repute. His connection with the London theater could hardly have 
been a merely’ accidental one. The London players were wont to visit Stratford : 
Thomas Green, one of the best of them, was a native of the town; and Richard 
Burbage, afterward the friend of Shakespeare, was from the same part of the 
country. We can not doubt that Shakespeare had become favorably known to 
them, and that he went up to London upon no uncertain adventure. At all events, 
it was not long before he was regularly installed as “ playwright” to the company. 
A part of his duty was undoubtedly that of “touching up” the works of others; 



Ann Hat}ia\vay’s Cottage at Shottery. 


but it was not long before he began to produce original dramas. He also bore a 
part in the representation of his own plays ; the part of “ the ghost ” in Hamlet 
being especially mentioned as one of those which were enacted by him. That he 
throve in a pecuniary point of view is clear. As early as 1597, when he w^as thirty- 
three, we find him with money which he could afford to invest in landed property in 
his native place, and he retained, besides, large interests in the London theaters, from 
which he received a very ample income—estimated as equivalent to about five 
thousand dollars of our money now. Though he lived in familiar intercourse Avith 
the nobles, the wits, and the poets of his day, he looked forward to the time when 
he should retire to his native town, and with this view he purchased New Place, 
the principal house in Stratford, with more than a hundred acres of ground 
attached. “The year 1612 has been assigned as the date of his final retirement 







WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


45 



to the country. In the fulness of his fame, with a handsome competency, and 
before age had chilled the enjoyment of life, the poet returned to his native town 
to spend the remainder of his days among the quiet scenes and the friends of his 
youth. Four years were spent by Shakespeare in this dignified retirement, and 
the history of literature scarce¬ 
ly presents another such pic¬ 
ture of calm felicity and satis¬ 
fied ambition.” 

H e was evidently a shrewd 
man of business, farming his 
own lands, disposing of their 
product, and looking to it that 
the purchasers paid what they 
owed ; for in 1604 we fi*"**^ 
bringing action against one 
Philip Rogers for about forty- 
five dollars for “ malt sold and 
delivered to him.” 

He died somewhat sud¬ 
denly, in 1616, of a fever, 
and was buried in the parish 
church,where a contemporary 
bust of him still exists, which 
must be regarded as the best- 
authenticated likeness of the 
poet. His wife survived him 
seven years. His only son. 

Ham net, died at the age of 
twelve; his two daughters, 

Susanna and Judith, both 
married, and one of them had 
three sons, but they all died 
without issue, so that a quar¬ 
ter of a century after his death 
there was no living descendant 
of Shakespeare. 

Shakespeare must early 
have won a high place in the 
esteem of the most accom- 
plished noblemen of Queen actor and Author. ' 

Elizabeth’s court, for as early David Garrick and the Bust of Shakespeare. 

as 1594 he dedicated his 

poem, the “Rape of Lucrece,” to the Earl of Southampton, in terms which 
demonstrate the existence of mutual respect of a high degree between the author 
and his patron. It is said that Southampton once presented Shakespeare with a 
sum of money equivalent to twenty-five thousand dollars in our day, but of this 









46 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


there is no conclusive evidence. It is certain, however, that the noble earl was 
glad to serve the popular writer and player, and that he was the means of procur¬ 
ing for “William Kempe, William Shakespeare, and Richarde Burbage, servauntes 
to the Lord Chamberleyne,” an invitation to present before the Court “ twoe 
severall comedies or enterludes,” for which they received twenty pounds. 

That Shakespeare had written more or less before he went up to London is 
altogether probable; that “ Venus and Adonis ” was “the first fruits of his inven¬ 
tion ” in any other sense than that of being the first to be printed, is not probable. 
That he was certainly employed as playwright or adapter of dramas for the stage 
before this time is unquestionable, and it is most likely that as a poet he had 
attracted the notice of the author of the “ Faerie Oueene,” who was his senior by 

eleven years. 

The productive literary 
life of Shakespeare, as far as 
we can date it, covers the 
twenty years preceding 1612, 
when at the age of forty-eight 
he retired to his native Strat¬ 
ford-on-Avon, after which we 
have no proof that he wrote 
anything. 

Shakespeare’s dramas, ac¬ 
cording to the all but uni¬ 
versally accepted canon, num¬ 
ber thirty-seven. There is no 
good reason to suppose that 
any of his plays have been 
lost, or that he had any con¬ 
siderable share in the compo¬ 
sition of any others. He un¬ 
doubtedly availed himself 
somewhat of the works of 
earlier playwrights, and in his 
historical plays made large use 
of the chroniclers, from whom he took not merely the historical outlines, but page 
after page of their very words, only throwing into dramatic form the continuous 
narrative of his authorities. Scene after scene in “Macbeth” is to be found in 
the “ Chronicles ” of Holinshed, themselves a translation from the Latin of Hector 
Boece, which had been published only a few years; and some of the most dramatic 
scenes in “Richard III.” are reproductions from “The Union of the Two Noble 
and Illustr Families of Lancastre and Yorke,” by Edward Hall. 

The dates of the production of the dramas are mainly conjectural ; although 
it is pretty well settled that “ Pericles, Prince of Tyre,” was one of the earliest, 
and “The Tempest” one of the latest; that “Romeo and Juliet” was an early 
play and “Cymbeline”a late one. Twelve plays at least, and doubtless several 
more, had been produced before Shakespeare reached his thirty-fourth year. His 



Fountain and Clock Tower Erf.ctfp by Geo. W. Childs at 
St r atford- on- a von . 







WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


47 


greatest works are of later date. “Hamlet” was certainly produced as early as 
1604, and “ Macbeth” previous to 1610. 

About a dozen of the plays of Shakespeare seem to have been printed during 
his lifetime, probably not by his procurement. The entire plays were first put 
forth in a folio volume in 1623, seven years after his death. It has a preface and 
dedication by his fellow-players, Heminge and Condell, and was undoubtedly 
printed from the stage copies, which could hardly have failed to have been sanc¬ 
tioned by Shakespeare, 

Aside from his dramas, Shakespeare would rank with Spenser and Milton as an 
imaginative poet. His one hundred and fifty-four sonnets, some of which were 
probably among his earliest productions, are sometimes imagined to express his 
deepest personal feelings, and to reveal, in great measure, the story of his life ; but 
as Shakespeare wrote to please his reader, and with very little apparent thought of 
himself, such conclusions must be accepted with great caution. The wonderful 
dramas so far surpass his other poems that the latter are now but little read. 

Shakespeare’s actual observation of the world was probably limited to the 
territory within a distance of fifty miles from the highway, itself a hundred miles 
in length, which leads from Stratford to London ; but by some marvel of endow¬ 
ment he was enabled to touch the mind and heart of men of every land and 
every generation, and it has been well said that no poet has ever written on any 
topic but it can be found better done in Shakespeare. 



MERCY. 

“ Merchant of Venice,” Aa IV,. Scene 2. 


HE quality of mercy is not strained ; 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath : it is twice 
blessed; 

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: 

’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown ; 

His scepter shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty. 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 


But mercy is above this sceptered sway; 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 

It is an attribute to God himself; 

And earthly power doth then show likest God’s 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this— 

That, in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy; 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. 



-. 0 ^ 0 *- 

SONNET XCIX. 


The forward violet thus did I chide ;— 

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that 
smells. 

If not from my love’s breath ? The purple pride 
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells. 
In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed. 

The lily I condemned for thy hand. 

And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair : 


The roses fearfully on thorns did stand. 

One blushing shame, another white despair; 

A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both. 
And to his robbery had annexed thy breath ; 
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth 
A vengeful canker eat him up to death. 

More flowers I noted, yet I none could see. 
But sweet or color it had stolen from thee. 









48 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


THE ABUSE OF AUTHORITY. 

“Measure for Measure,” Act II, Scene 2. 


O, it is excellent 

To have a giant’s strength ; but it is tyrannous 
To use it like a giant. 

Could great men thunder 
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne’er be quiet; 
For every pelting, petty officer | 

Would use his heaven for thunder: nothing but I 
thunder. I 


Merciful Heaven ! 

Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, 
Splitt’st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak 
Than the soft myrtle: But man, proud man. 
Dressed in a little brief authority. 

Most ignorant of what he’s most assured,— 

His glassy essence,—like an angry ape. 

Plays such fantastic tricks before high Heaven 
As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens. 
Would all themselves laugh mortal. 



Shakespeare’s House, Stratford-on-Avon. 


THE WITCHES. 


“Macbeth,” Aci IV, Scene /. 


A dark cave. In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder. 


Enter the three Witches, 
ist Witch. Thrice the brinded cat has mewed. 
2d Witch. Thrice; and once the hedge-pig 
whined. 

jd Witch. Harpier cries:—’Tis time, ’tistime. 
1st Witch. Round about the caldron go; 

In the poisoned enirails throw. 

Toad, that under the cold stone. 

Days and nights hast thirty-one 
Sweltered venom sleeping got. 

Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot! 


A//. Double, double, toil and trouble; 
Fire burn, and caldron bubble. 

2d Witch. Fillet of a fenny snake. 

In the caldron boil and bake: 

Eye of newt, and toe of frog. 

Wool of bat, and tongue of dog. 

Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting. 
Lizard’s leg, and owlet’s wing. 

For a charm of powerful trouble ; 

Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. 

A a. Double, double, toil and trouble ; 
Fire burn, and caldron bubble. 




















WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


49 


DEATH OF QUEEN KATHERINE. 
“Henry VHI,” Act IV, Scene 4. 


Kath. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver 
This to my lord the King. 

Cap. Most willing, madam. 

Kath. In which I have commended to his 
goodness 

The model of our chaste loves, his young daugh¬ 
ter : 

The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on 
her ! — 

Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding; 
(She is young, and of a noble, modest nature; 

I hope she will deserve well;) and a little 
To love her for her mother’s sake, that loved him. 
Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition 
Is, that his noble grace would have some pity 
Upon my wretched women, that so long 
Have followed both my fortunes faithfully: 

Of which there is not one, I dare avow, 

(And now I should not lie,) but will deserve. 

For virtue, and true beauty of the soul, 

For honesty, and decent carriage, 

A right good husband, let him be a noble; 

And, sure, those men are happy that shall have 
them. 

The last is, for my men ;—they are the poorest, 
But poverty could never draw them from me;— 
That they may have their wages duly paid them. 


And something over to remember me by; 

If heaven had pleased to have given me longer life. 
And able means, we had not parted thus. 

These are the whole contents:—And, good my 
lord. 

By that you love the dearest in this world. 

As you wish Christian peace to souls departed, 
Stand these poor people’s friend, and urge the king 
To do me this last right. 

Cap. By heaven, I will; 

Or let me lose the fashion of a man ! 

Kath. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me 
In all humility unto his highness: 

Say, his long trouble now is passing 
Out of this world : tell him, in death I blessed 
him, 

For so I will.—Mine eyes grow dim.—Farewell, 
My lord.—Griffith, farewell.—Nay, Patience, 

You must not leave me yet. I must to bed; 

Call in more women —When I am dead, good 
wench. 

Let me be used with honor; strew me over 
With maiden flowers, that all the world may know 
I was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me. 
Then lay me forth : although unqueened, yet like 
A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me. 

I can no more. 


THE POWER OF IMAGINATION. 

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’’ Act V, Scene /. 


I never may believe 

These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. 

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains. 
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend 
More than cool reason ever comprehends. 

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet. 

Are of imagination all compact; 

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold— 
That is the madman : the lover, all as frantic. 
Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt: 

The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling. 


Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to 
heaven. 

And, as imagination bodies forth 
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen 
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
A local habitation and a name. 

Such tricks hath strong imagination. 

That, if it would but apprehend some joy. 

It comprehends some bringer of that joy; 

Or, in the night, imagining some fear. 

How easy is a bush supposed a bear ! 


-•0^0*- 


THE FAIRY TO PUCK. 

“Midsummer Night’s Dream,’’ Act II, Scene /. 


Over hill, over dale. 

Thorough bush, thorough brier. 
Over park, over pale. 

Thorough flood, thorough fire, 

I do wander everywhere. 

Swifter than the moon’s sphere ; 
As I serve the fairy queen. 


To dew her orbs upon the green : 

The cowslips tall her per^ioners be; 
In their gold coats spots you see; 
Those be rubies, fairy favors. 

In those freckles live their savors ; 

I must go seek some dew-drops here. 
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear, 





50 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 



ARIEL’S SONG. 

“The Tempest,” Act J' Scene i. 


Where the bee sucks, there suck 1 ; 
In a cowslip’s bell I lie : 

There I couch when owls do cry, 
On the bat’s back I do fly 


After summer merrily: 

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now. 

Under the blossom that hangs on the 
bough. 


OBERON’S VISION. 

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Act JI, Scene 2. 


Ohe. My gentle Puck, come hither: Thou re¬ 
member’st 

Since once I sat upon a promontory, 

And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin’s back. 
Littering such dulcet and harmonious breath. 

That the rude sea grew civil at her song; 

And certain stars shot madly from their spheres. 
To hear the sea-maid’s music. 

Puck. I remember. 

Ohe. That very time I saw (but thou couldst 
not), 

Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
Cupid all armed ; a certain aim he took 
At a fair vestal, throned by the west; 

And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his 
bow, 

As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts: 
But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft 


Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery 
moon; 

And the imperial votaress passed on. 

In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 

Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell: 

It fell upon a little western flower,— 

Before, milk-white; now, purple with love’s 
wound ; 

And maidens call it love-in-idleness. 

Fetch me that flower; the herb I showed thee 
once; 

The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid. 

Will make or man or woman madly dote 
Upon the next live creature that it sees. 

Fetch me this herb: and be thou here again. 

Ere the leviathan can swim a league. 

Puck. I’ll put a girdle round about the earth 
In forty minutes. 






WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


51 


FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY. 

“ Henry VIII,” Act HI, Scene 2. 

Cardinal W olsey, after his fall from the favor of Henry VIII, thus soliloquizes, and afterward confers with his servant 
Cromwell: 


IVo/sey. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my 
greatness! 

This is the state of man ; to-day he puts forth 
'The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him : 
'rhe third day comes a frost, a killing frost; 

And,—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a ripening,—nips his root. 

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured. 

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 
'Fhis many summers in a sea of glory ; 

But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 
At length broke under me ; and now has left me. 
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. 

Vain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate ye ; 

I feel my heart new open’d : O, how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favors ! 
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, 
'Fhat sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 
More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; 
. 4 nd when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 

Never to hope again.— 

Enter Cromwell, amazedly. 

Why, how now, Cromwell? 

Crom. I have no pOwer to speak, sir. 

Wol. What, amazed at my misfortunes; can thy 
spirit wonder 

A great man should decline ? Nay, and you weep, 
I am fallen indeed. 

Crom. How does your grace ? 

Wol. Why, well; 

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. 

I know myself now ; and I feel within me 
A peace above all earthly dignities, 

A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured 
me, 

I humbly thank his grace ; and from these shoul¬ 
ders, 

These ruin’d pillars, out of pity, taken 
A load would sink a navy, too much honor : 

O ’tis a burden, Cromwell, ’tis a burden. 

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven. 

Crom. I am glad your grace has made that 
right use of it. 

Wol. I hope I have ; I am able now, methinks 
(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel), 

To endure more miseries, and greater far. 

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. 

What news abroad ? 


Crom. That Cranmer is return’d with welcome. 
Install’d lord archbishop of Canterbury. 

Wol. That’s news indeed. 

Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne, 

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, 
This day was view’d in open, as his queen. 

Going to chapel; and the voice is now 
Only about her coronation. 

Wol. There was the weight that pull’d me 
down. O Cromwell, 

The king has gone beyond me ; all my glories 
In that one woman I have lost forever ; 

No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors. 

Or gild again the noble troops that waited 
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Crom¬ 
well ; 

I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now 
To be thy lord and master: Seek the king ; 

That sun I pray may never set ! I have told him 
What, and how true thou art; he will advance 
thee ; 

Some little memory of me will stir him, 

(I know his noble nature) not to let 
Thy hopeful service perish, too : Good Cromwell, 
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide 
For thine own future safety. 

Crom. O my lord, 

Must I then leave you ? Must I needs forego 
So good, so noble, and so true a master? 

Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron. 
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.— 
The king shall have my service ; but my prayers 
Forever, and forever, shall be yours. 

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me. 

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 

Let’s dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, 
Cromwell; 

And,—when I am forgotten, as I shall be. 

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 
Of me more must be heard of,—say, I taught 
thee; 

Say, Wolsey,—that once trod the ways of glory. 
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,— 
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; 

A sure and safe one, though thy master miss’d it. 
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d me. 
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition; 

By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then. 
The image of his Maker, hope to win by’t? 

Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate 
thee; 




52 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


Corruption wins not more than honesty. 

Still in thy right hand carry gentle i)eace, 

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and tear not: 
Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, 
Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, 
O Cromwell, 

Thou fall’st a blessed martyr. Serve the king. 
And,-Pr’ythee, lead me in : 


There take an inventory of all 1 have. 

To the last penny ; ’tis the king’s : my robe. 

And my integrity to heaven, is all 
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, 
Cromwell, 

Had I but served my God with half the zeal 
I served my king, he would not in mine age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies. 



TOUCHSTONE AND AUDREY. 

“As You Like It,” Act III, Scene 3. 


Tojtch. Come apace, good Audrey : I will fetch 
up your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? am 
I the man yet? doth my simple feature content 
you ? 

Aud. Your features ! Lord warrant us ! what 
features ? 

Touch. I am here with thee and thy goats, as 
the most capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among 
the Goths. 

When a man’s verses can not be understood. 


nor a man’s good wit seconded with the forward 
child Understanding, it strikes a man more dead 
than a great reckoning in a little room. Truly, I 
would the gods had made thee poetical. 

Aud. I do not know what “ poetical ” is; is it 
honest in deed and word? is it a true thing? 

Touch. No, truly; for the truest poetry is the 
most feigning; and lovers are given to poetry, 
and what they swear in poetry may be said as 
lovers they do feign. 













WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


Aud. Do you wish, then, that the gods had 
made me poetical ? 

Touch. I do, truly; for thou swearest to me 
thou art honest; now, if thou wert a poet, I 
might have some hope thou didst feign. 

Aud. Would you not have me honest? 

Touch. No, truly, unless thou wert hard- 
favored ; for honesty coupled to beauty is to have 
honey a sauce to sugar. 


53 

Aud. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray 
the gods make me honest. 

Touch. Well, praised be the gods. But be it 
as it may be, I will marry thee, and to that end I 
have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicar of 
the next village, who hath promised to meet me 
in this place of the forest and to couple us. 

Aud. Well, the gods give us joy ! 


THE SEVEN AGES. 

“As You Like It,” Act II, Scene 7. 

The banished duke, with Jaques and other lords, are in the forest of Arden, sitting at their plain repast. Orlando, 
who has been wandering in the forest in quest of food for an old servant, Adam, who can “go no further,” suddenly 
comes upon the party, and with his sword drawm, exclaims: 


Orlando. Forbear, I say; 

He dies that touches any of this fruit 
Till I and my affairs are answer’d. 

Jaques. An you will not 
Be answer’d with reason, I must die. 

Duke Sen. What would you have? Your gen¬ 
tleness shall force. 

More than your force move us to gentleness. 

Orla. I almost die for food, and let me have it. 
Duke Sen. Sit down and feed, and welcome to 
our table. 

Orla. Speak you so gently ? Pardon me, I pray 
you; 

I thought that all things had been savage here ; 
And therefore put I on the countenance 
Of stern commandment. But whate’er you are. 
That in this desert inaccessible. 

Under the shade of melancholy boughs, 

Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ; 

If ever you have look’d on better days; 

If ever been where bells have knoll’d to church ; 
If ever sat at any good man’s feast; 

If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear. 

And know what ’tis to pity, and be pitied; 

Let gentleness my strong enforcement be; 

In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword. 
Duke Sen. True it is that we have seen better 
days; 

And have w'ith holy bell been knoll’d to church ; 
And sat at good men’s feasts; and wiped our eyes 
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender’d : 

And therefore sit you down in gentleness. 

And take upon command what help we have 
That to your wanting may be minister’d. 

Orla. Then but forbear your food a little while, 
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn, 

And give it food. There is an old poor man. 
Who after me hath many a weary step 
Limp’d in pure love; till he be first sufficed,— 


j Oppress’d with two weak evils, age and hunger,— 
I I will not touch a bit. 
i Duke Sen. Go find him out, 

I And we will nothing waste till your return. 

. Orla. I thank ye : and be bless’d for your good 
comfort. 

Duke Sen. Thou seest, we are not all alone 
unhappy: 

This wide and universal theater 

Presents more woful pageants than the scene 

Wherein we play in. 

Jaq. All the world’s a stage, 

And all the men and women merely players; 

They have their exits and their entrances ; 

And one man in his time plays many parts. 

His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant. 
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms: 

And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel 
And shining morning-face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school: And then the lover; 
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad 
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow : Then, a soldier; 
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, 
Seeking the bubble reputation 
Even in the cannon’s mouth : And then, the justice; 
In fair round belly, with good capon lined. 

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut. 

Full of wise saws and modern instances. 

And so he plays his part; The sixth age shifts 
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon ; 

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side : 

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide 
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, 

I Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
j And whistles in his sound : Last scene of all. 
That ends this strange eventful history, 
j Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 

‘ Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. 







WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


■^4 



“There is a Willow Grows Aslant a Brook.” 


OPHELIA. 

“ Hamlet,” Act IJ ’, Scene 7. 


HERE is a willow grows aslant a brook, 
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy 
- stream; 

There with fantastic garlands did she come 
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples 
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name. 

But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them; 
There on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds 
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke ; 
When down her weedy trophies and herself 


Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread 
wide; 

And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up ; 
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes, 

As one incapable of her own distress. 

Or like a creature native and indued 
Unto that element; but long it could not be 
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, 
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay 
To muddy death. 


-. 0 ^ 0 *- 

MACBETH’S IRRESOLUTION BEFORE THE MURDER OF DUNCAN. 

“ Macbeth,” Act /, Scene 7. 


Macb. If it were done, when ’tis done, then 
’twere well 

It were done quickly: If the assassination 
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch. 
With his surcease, success ; that but this blow 
Might be the be-all and the end-all, here. 

But here, upon this bank and shoal of time. 

We’d jump the life to come.—But in these cases, 
AVe still hgve judgment here; that we but teach 
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return 
To plague the inventor : This even-handed justice 
Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice 
To our own lips. He’s here in double trust: 
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject. 

Strong both against the deed: then, as his host, 


Who should against his murtherer shut the door. 
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan 
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 
So clear in his great office, that his virtues 
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against 
The deep damnation of his taking-off: 

And pity, like a naked new-born babe. 

Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubim, horsed 
Upon the sightless couriers of the air. 

Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye. 

That tears shall drown the wind.—I have no 
spur 

To prick the sides of my intent, but only 
Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself, 

And falls on the other. 













WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


55 


ANTONY’S ORATION AT Cyf:SAR’S FUNERAL. 

“Julius C^sar,” Aci III, Scene 2. 


RIENDS, Romans, countrymen, lend me 
your ears; 

I come to bury ('?esar, not to praise him. 
The evil that men do lives alter them. 

The good is oft interred with their bones; 

So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus 
Hath told you, Caesar was ambitious : 

If it were so, it was a grievous fault. 

And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it. 

Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest 
(For Brutus is an honorable man, 

So are they all, all honorable men). 

Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral. 

He was my friend, faithful and just to me: 

But Brutus says,_ he was ambitious; 

And Brutus is an honorable man. 

He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
Whose ransom did the general coffers fill: 

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? 

^Vhen that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept: 
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff. 

Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ; 

.\nd Brutus is an honorable man. 

You all did see, that on the Lupercal 
I thrice presented him a kingly crown. 

Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? 
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious; 

And, sure, he is an honorable man. 

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke. 

But here I am to speak what I do know. 

You all did love him once, not without cause; 
What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? 
O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts. 

And men have lost their reason !—Bear with me; 
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, 

And I must pause till it come back to me. 

But yesterday the word of Caesar might 

Have stood against the world : now lies he there. 

And none so poor to do him reverence. 

O masters ! if I were dispos’d to stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, 
.Who, you all know, are honorable men : 

1 will not do them wrong; I rather choose 
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you. 
Than I will wrong such honorable men. 

But here’s a parchment, with the seal of Caesar ; 

I found it in his closet; ’tis his will: 

You will compel me, then, to read the will? 

Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, 

And let me show you him that made the will. 


If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. 

You all do know this mantle: I remember 
The first time ever Caesar put it on ; 

’Twas on a summer’s evening, in his tent. 

That day he overcame the Nervii. 

Look ! in this jilace, ran Cassius’ dagger through : 
See what a rent the envious Casca made : 

Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d ; 
And, as he pluck’d his cursed steel away, 

Mark how the blood of Caesar follow’d it. 

As rushing out of doors, to be resolv’d 
If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no ; 

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel : 
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov’d him ! 
This was the most unkindest cut of all; 

For, when the noble Caesar saw him stab. 
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms. 
Quite vanquish’d him: then burst his mighty 
heart; 

And, in his mantle muffling up his face. 

Even at the base of Pompey’s statue. 

Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. 
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 

Then I, and you, and all of us fell down. 

Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us. 

O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel 
The dint of pity : these are gracious drops. 

Kind souls, what! weep you, when you but behold 
Our Caesar’s vesture wounded ? Look you here. 
Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, with traitors. 

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up 
To such a sudden flood of mutiny. 

They that have done this deed are honorable : 
What private griefs they have, alas ! I know not. 
That made them do it; they are wise and honor¬ 
able. 

And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. 

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts: 

I am no orator, as Brutus is; 

But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man. 

That love my friend ; and that they know full well 
That gave me public leave to speak of him. 

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 
.\ction, nor utterance, nor the power of speech. 
To stir men’s blood : I only speak right on ; 

I tell you that which you yourselves do know. 
Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor, poor dumb 
mouths, 

.\nd bid them speak for me: but, were I Brutus.. 
.And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 
Would ruffle up your spirits, and ])ut a tongue 
In every wound of Caesar, that should move 
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. 








56 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


SHYLOCK AND ANTONIO. 

“ Merchant of Venice,” Act J , Scene j. 
Antonio, to oblige his friend Bassanio, becomes his surety for repaymeoit of a loan. 


Bassanio. This is Signior Antonio. 

Shylock (aside). How like a fawning publican 
he looks! 

I hate him for he is a Christian ; 

But more for that in low simplicity 
He lends out money gratis and brings down 
The rate of usance here with us in Venice. 

If I can catch him once upon the hip, 

I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 

He hates our sacred nation, and he rails. 

Even there where merchants most do congregate. 
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift. 
Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe. 

If I forgive him. 

Antonio. Shylock, although I neither lend nor 
borrow 

By taking nor by giving of excess. 

Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend. 

I’ll break a custom. 

Shy. Methought you said you neither lend nor 
borrow 

Upon advantage. 

Ant. I do never use it. 

Shy. When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban’s 
sheep— 

Ant. And what of him ? did he take interest ? 
Shy. No, not take interest, not, as you would 
say, 

Directly interest; mark what Jacob did. 

This was a way to thrive, and he was blest: 

And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not. 

Ant. Mark you this, Bassanio, 

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. 

An evil soul producing holy witness 
Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, 

A goodly apple rotten at the heart. 

Shy. Signior Antonio, many time and oft 
In the Rialto you have rated me 
About my money and my usances : 

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug. 

For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. 

You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog. 

And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine. 

And all for use of that which is mine own. 

Well then, it now appears you need my help : 

Go too, then ; you come to me and you say, 

“ Shylock, we would have moneys: ” you say so ; 
You that did void your rheum upon my beard. 
And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur 
Over your threshold : moneys is your suit. 

What should I say to you ? Should I not say, 

“ Hath a dog money ? is it possible 
A cur can lend three thousand ducats? ” or 


I Shall I bend low, and in a bondman’s key. 

Say this ; “ Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednes¬ 
day last; 

You spurned me such a day; another time 
You called me dog ; and for these courtesies 
I’ll lend you thus much moneys? ” 

Ant. I am as like to call thee so again. 

To spit on thee again,, to spurn thee too. 

If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not 
As to thy friends; for when did friendship take 
A breed for barren metal of his friend ? 

But lend it rather to thine enemy. 

Who, if he break, thou mayest with better face 
Exact the penalty. 

Shy. ^Vl^y, look you, how you storm ! 

I would be friends with you and have your love, 
j Forget the shames that you have stain’d me 
I with, 

I Supply your present wants and take no doit 
I Of usance for my moneys, and you’ll not hear 
■ me: 

This is kind I offer. 

Bass. This were kindness. 

Shy. This kindness will I show. 

Go with me to a notary, seal me there 
Your single bond; and in a merry sport. 

If you repay me not on such a day. 

In such a place, such sum or sums as are 
Express’d in such condition, let the forfeit 
Be nominated for an equal pound 
Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken 
In what part of your body pleaseth me. 

Ant. Content i’ faith : I’ll seal to such a bond. 
And say there is much kindness in the Jew. 

Bass. You shall not sign to such a bond for 
me. 

I’ll rather dwell in my necessity. 

Ant. Why, fear not, man ; I will not forfeit it: 
Within these two months—that’s a month before 
This bond expires—I do expect return 
Of thrice three times the value of this bond. 

Shy. O father Abram, what these Christians 
are, 

Whose own hard dealing teaches them suspect 
The thoughts of others ! Pray you, tell me this ? 
If he should break his day, what slould I gain? 

A pound of man’s flesh taken from a man 
Is not so estimable, profitable neither. 

As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say 
To buy his favor, I extend this friendship : 

If he will take it, so ; if not, adieu : 

And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not. 

Ant. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. 




WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


57 


Shy. Then meet me henceforth at the notary’s; 
Give him directions for this money bond, 

And I will go and purse the ducats straight; 

See to my house, left in the fearful guard 


Of an unthrifty knave, and presently 
I will be with you. 

Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew. 

The Hebrew will turn Christian : he grows kind 


HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. 
“ Hamlet,” Act III, Scene i. 


Ham. To be, or not to be, that is the question : 
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. 

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. 

And by opposing end them ? To die,—to sleep,— 
No more ; and, by a sleep, to say we end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to,—’tis a consummation 
Devoutly to be wished. To die,—to sleep ;— 

To sleep! perchance to dream;—ay, there’s the 
rub ; 

For in that sleep of death w’hat dreams may come. 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil. 

Must give us pause: there’s the respect. 

That makes calamity of so long life : 

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time. 
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s con¬ 
tumely. 


The pangs of disprized love, the law’s delay. 

The insolence of office, and the spurns 
That patient merit of the unworthy takes. 

When he himself might his qiiietus make 
With a bare bodkin ? Who would these fardels 
bear. 

To grunt and sweat under .a weary life ; 

But that the dread of something after death. 

The undiscovered country, from whose bourn 
No traveler returns, puzzles the will; 

And makes us rather bear those ills we have. 

Than fly to others that we know not of? 

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; 
And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sickbed o’er with the pale cast of thought; 
And enterprises of great pith and moment. 

With this regard, their currents turn awry. 

And lose the name of action. 


-.o^o*- 


HAMLET AND THE GHOST. 
“ Hamlet,” Act /, Scene 4. 


Enter Ghost. 

Hor. Look, my lord, it comes 1 

Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend 
us !— 

Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned. 
Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from 
hell. 

Be thy intents wicked, or charitable. 

Thou comest in such a questionable shape. 

That I will speak to thee; I’ll call thee, Hamlet, 
King, father, royal Dane ; O, answer me : 

Let me not burst in ignorance I but tell. 

Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death. 
Have burst their cerements ! why the sepulchre. 
Wherein we saw thee quietly in-urned. 

Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws. 

To cast thee up again ! What may this mean. 
That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel, 
Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon, 

Making night hideous; and we fools of nature. 
So horridly to shake our disposition, 


With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? 
Say, why is this ? wherefore ? what should we 
do? 

Hor. It beckons you to go away with it. 

As if it some impartment did desire 
To you alone. 

Mar. Look, with what courteous action 
It wafts you to a more removed ground : 

But do not go with it. 

Hor. No, by no means. 

Ham. It will not speak ; then will I follow it. 
Hor. Do not, my lord. 

Ham. It wafts me still : — 

Go on. I’ll follow thee. 

Where wilt thou lead me? speak, I’ll go no 
further. 

Ghost. Mark me. 

Ham. I will. 

Ghost. My hour is almost come, 

When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames 
Must render up myself. 

Ham. Alas, poor ghost ! 





58 


WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hear¬ 
ing 

To what I shall unfold. 

Ham. Si)eak, I am bound to hear. 

Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt 
hear. 

Ham. What ? 

Ghost. I am thy father’s spirit; 

Doomed for a certain term to walk the night; 
And, for the day, confined to fast in fires. 

Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature. 
Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid 
To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 

I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word 


Would harrow up thy soul; freeze th) young 
blood ; 

Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their 
spheres ; 

Thy knotted and combined locks to part. 

And each particular hair to stand on end. 

Like quills upon the fretful porcupine ; 

But this eternal blazon must not be 

To ears of flesh and blood :—List, Hamlet, O 
list!— 

If thou didst ever thy dear father love,— 

Haiti. O heaven ! 

Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural 
murther. 



“ I spake of most disastrous chances, 

Of moving accidents by flood and field.” 


OTHELLO 

OST potent, grave, and reverend signeurs. 
My very noble and approved good masters. 
That I have ta’en away this old man’s 
daughter. 

It is most true ; true, I have married her : 

The very head and front of my offending 


5 WOOING. 

Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in my 
speech. 

And little bless’d with the soft phrase of peace: 
Forsince these arms of mine had seven years’ pith. 
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used 
Their dearest action in the tented field. 
















WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 


59 


And little of this great world can I speak, 

More than pertains to feats of broil and battle, 
And therefore little shall I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious 
patience, 

I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver 
Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what 
charms. 

What conjuration and what mighty magic. 

For such proceeding I am charged withal, 

1 won his daughter. 

Bra. A maiden never bold ; 

Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion 
Blush’d at herself; and she, in spite of nature, 
Of years, of country, credit, everything, 

To fall in love with what she fear’d to look 
on ! 

It is a judgment maim’d and most imperfect 
That will confess ])erfection so could err 
Against all rules of nature, and must be driven 
To find out practices of cunning hell. 

Why this should be. 1 therefore vouch again 
d'hat with some mixtures powerful o’er the blood. 
Or with some dram conjured to this effect. 

He wrought upon her. 

Duke. To vouch this, is no proof. 

Without more wider or more overt test 
Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods 
Of modern seeming do prefer against him. 

First Sen. But, Othello, speak ; 

Did you by indirect and forced courses 
Subdue and poison this young maid’s affections ? 
Or came it by request and such fair question 
As soul to soul affordeth ? 

Duke. Say it, Othello. 

Othello. Her father lov’d me ; oft invited me ; 
Still question’d me the story of my life, 

From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes. 
That I have pass’d. 

I ran it through, even from my boyish days, 

To the very moment that he bade me tell it: 


Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances. 

Of moving accidents by flood and field ; 

Of hair-breadth ’scapes i’ the imminent deadly 
breach; 

Of being taken by the insolent foe, 

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence. 
And importance in my travel’s history ; 

Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle. 

Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch 
heaven. 

It was my hint to speak,—such was the process; 
.Ynd of the Cannibals that each other eat, 

'file Anthropophagi, and men whose heads 
Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear 
Would Desdemona seriously incline. 

But still the house-affairs would draw her thence: 
Which ever as she could with haste despatch. 

She’Id come again, and with a greedy ear 
Devour up my discourse : which I observing, 
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means 
'Fo draw from her a pra) er of earnest heart 
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate. 

Whereof by i)arcels she had something heard. 

But not intentively : I did consent. 

And often did beguile her of her tears, 

VVTen I did speak of some distressful stroke 
That my youth suffer’d. My story being done. 
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs: 

She swore,—it faith, ’t was strange, ’t was passing 
strange ; 

’T was pitiful, ’t was wondrous pitiful: 

She wish’d she had not heard it; yet she wish’d 
That Heaven had made her such a man : she 
thank’d me; 

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, 

I should but teach him how to tell my story. 

And that would woo her. Upon this hint I 
spake; 

She loved me for the dangers I had passed, 

.\nd I loved her that she did i)ity them. 

This only is the witchcraft I have used. 



1 







:^k 




BEN JONSON. 

THE COMPANION AND FRIEND OF SHAKESPEARE. 

“Many were the wit-combats betwixt Shakespeare and Ben Jonson, which two I beheld like a Spanish great galleon 
and an English man-of-war. Master Jonson, like the former, was built far higher in learning ; solid, but slow in his per¬ 
formances. Shakespeare, with the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack 
about, and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention.”— Fuller's Worthies {1662). 

MONO the galaxy of great dramatic poets which adorned the age 
of Elizabeth, Ben Jonson shines only less bright than Shakespeare. 
Forced by his step-father to follow the trade of a bricklayer, his 
love of learning induced him to carry books in his pocket and to 
dip into the classical authors in the intervals of his labor. It is 
said that this attracted the attention of a lawyer when Jonson 
was working on a building at Lincoln’s Inn, and resulted in his 
being sent to Cambridge. 

He spent a short time in military service in the Low Countries, but returning to 
London, attached himself to one of the minor theaters. He did not succeed as an 
actor, and got into serious trouble over a duel. He probably began his literary 
work by recasting old plays, and his first original piece, the comedy, “ Every Man 
in His Humor,” probably appeared in 1596. It is said that it was only by the help 
of Shakespeare, and after being revised in accordance with his suggestions, that 
this play became a success. Thus was established the sincere and enduring 
attachment between Jonson and Shakespeare, of which many delightful anecdotes 
are told. From this time for a quarter of a century Jonson held high rank among 
literary men of his time. He was frequently employed to arrange the splendid 
masques which furnished entertainment to the Court, and in this work employed all 
his powers of invention and his profound and elegant scholarship. He became 
Poet Laureate in 1616, and remained in high favor until the death of James I, in 
1625. Notwithstanding his high position, he became involved in debt; he was 
extravagant and given too much to drink, and gradually he lost his art of pleasing, 
and his later plays were not uniformly successful. 

He died, in 1637, at the age of sixty-four, and was buried in an upright 
posture in the Poets’ Corner of Westminster Abbey. 

The most complete edition of Jonson’s works contains seventeen plays, and 
more than thirty masques and interludes, beside many miscellaneous pieces in 
prose and verse. Among the latter are a number of poems of exquisite beauty. 
His most important plays are, “Every Man in His Humor,” “Sejanus,” “ Cataline,” 
“ Volpone, or the Foxe,” “Epicaene, or the Silent Woman,” and “The Alchemist.” 

60 













BEN JONSON. 


6t 


CUPID. 


EAUTIES, have ye seen this toy, 
Called love ! a little boy 
Almost naked, wanton, blind. 
Cruel now, and then as kind? 

If he be amongst ye, say ! 

He is Venus’ runaway. 

He hath of marks about him plenty. 
You shall know him among twenty : 
All his body is a fire. 

And his breath a flame entire. 

That, being shot like lightning in. 
Wounds the heart, but not the skin. 

He doth bear a golden bow. 

And a quiver, hanging low. 

Full of arrows, that outbrave 


Dian’s shafts, where, if he have 
Any head more sharp than other, 

With that first he strikes his mother. 

Trust him not : his words, though sweet. 
Seldom with his heart do meet. 

All his practice is deceit. 

Every gift is but a bait; 

Not a kiss but poison bears. 

And most treason in his tears. 

If by these ye please to know him. 
Beauties, be not nice, but show him. 
Though ye had a will to hide him. 

Now, we hope, ye’ll not abide him. 
Since ye hear his falser play. 

And that he’s Venus’ runaway. 




HYMN TO 

UEEN and huntress, chaste and fair. 

Now the sun is laid to sleep, 

Seated in thy silver chair. 

State in wonted manner keep : 

Hesperus entreats thy light. 

Goddess, excellently bright. 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 
Dare itself to interpose ; 

Cynthia’s shining orb was made 


CYNTHIA. 

Heaven to clear, when day did close 
Bless us then with wished sight. 
Goddess, excellently bright. 

Lay thy bow of pearl apart. 

And thy crystal shining quiver; 

Give unto the flying heart 

Space to breathe, how short soever : 
Thou that mak’st a day of night. 
Goddess, excellently bright. 





SONG.—TO CELIA. 


RINK to me only with thine eyes. 

And I will pledge with mine ; 

Or leave a kiss but in the cup. 

And I’ll not look for wine. 

The thirst that from the soul doth rise. 

Doth ask a drink divine ; 

But might I of Jove’s nectar sup, j 

I would not change for thine. ' 

-•O'^O 


I sent thee late a rosy wreath. 

Not so much honoring thee. 

As giving it a hope, that there 
It could not withered be. 

But thou thereon didst only breathe. 

And sent’st it back to me; 

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear. 
Not of itself but thee. 



ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. 


HIS morning, timely rapt with holy fire, 

I thought to form unto my zealous muse. 
What kind of creature I could most desire 
To honor, serve, and love, as Poets use. 

I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise. 

Of greatest blood,and yet more good than great; 
I meant the day-star should not brighter rise. 

Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat. 

I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet. 


Hating that solemn vice of greatness—pride; 

I meant each softest virtue there should meet. 

Fit in that softer bosom to reside. 

Only a learned and manly soul 

I purposed her: that should, with even powers. 
The rock, the spindle, and the shears control 
Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. 

Such, when I meant to feign, and wished to see. 
My Muse bade Bedford, write, and that was she! 



















JOHN MILTON. 

THE IMMORTAL AUTHOR OF “PARADISE LOST.” 

AR above all the poets of his own age, and, in learning, inven¬ 
tion, and sublimity, without an equal in the whole range of 
English literature, stands John Milton, He was born in Lon¬ 
don, December 9, 1608. His father, who was a scrivener, or, 
as we would say, conveyancer, and who had suffered much for 
conscience’ sake, doubtless infused into his son those principles 
of religious freedom which made him, in subsequent years, 
the bulwark of that holy cause in England. He was also early instructed in 
music, to which may doubtless be attributed that richness and harmony of versi¬ 
fication which distinguished him as much as his learning and imagination. His 
early education was conducted with great care. At sixteen he entered the 
University of Cambridge. After leaving the university, where he was distin¬ 
guished for his scholarship, he retired to the house of his father, who had 
relinquished business, and had purchased a small property at Horton in Buck¬ 
inghamshire. Here he lived five years, devoting his time most assiduously to 
classic literature, making the well known remark that he “cared not how late 
he came into life, only that he came fit.” While in the university he had 
written his grand “ Hymn on the Nativity,” any one verse of which was suffi¬ 
cient to show that a new and great light was about to rise on Pmglish poetry; 
and there, at his father’s, he wrote his “ Comus ” and “ Lycidas,” his “ L’Alle- 
gro ” and “II Penseroso,” and his “Arcades.” 

In 1638 he went to Italy, the most accomplished Englishman that ever 
visited her classic shores. Here his society was courted by “the choicest 
Italian wits,” and he visited Galileo, then a prisoner in the Inquisition. On his 
return home, he opened a school in London, and devoted himself with great 
assiduity to the business of instruction. In the meantime he entered into the relig¬ 
ious disputes of the day, engaging in the controversy single-handed against all the 
royalists and prelates ; and, though numbering among his antagonists such men as 
Bishop Hall and Archbishop Usher, proving himself equal to them all. In 1643 
he married the daughter of Richard Powell, a high royalist; but the connection did 
not prove a happy one, his wife being utterly incapable of appreciating the lofti¬ 
ness and purity of the poet’s character. In 1649 he was appointed foreign secre¬ 
tary under Cromwell, which olEce he held until the death of Cromwell, 1658. 

62 














JOHN MILTON. 


63 


For ten years Milton’s eyesight had been failing, owing to the “ wearisome 
studies and midnight watchings ” of his youth. The last remains of it were sacri¬ 
ficed in the composition of his “ Defenslo Populi ” (Defense of the People of Eng¬ 
land), and by the close of the year 1652 he was totally blind: “ Dark, dark, dark, 
amid the blaze of noon.” At the Restoration he was obliged to conceal himself 
until the publication of the act of oblivion released him from danger. He then 
devoted himself exclusively to study, and especially to the composition of “ Para¬ 
dise Lost.” The idea of this unequaled poem was probably conceived as early as 
1642. It was published in 1667. For the first and second editions the blind poet 
received but the sum of five pounds each ! In 1671 he produced his “Paradise 
Regained” and “Samson Agonistes.” A long sufferer from gout, his life was now 
drawing to a close. His mind was calm and bright to the last, and he died without 
a struggle on Sunday, the 8th of November, 1674. 

Milton has left to us a description of himself as he had been in early man¬ 
hood and as he was later. He says : 

“ My stature certainly is not tall; but it rather approaches the middle than the 
diminutive. Nor, though very thin, was I ever deficient in courage or in strength ; 
and I was wont constantly to exercise myself in the use of the broadsword as long 
as it comported with my habit and my years. Armed with this weapon, as I 
usually was, I should have thought myself quite a match for any one, though much 
stronger than myself. At this moment I have the same courage, the same strength, 
though not the same eyes. Yet so little do they betray any external appearance 
of injury, that they are as unclouded and bright as the eyes of those who most 
distinctly see. Though I am more than forty-five years old, there is scarcely any 
one to whom I do not appear ten years younger than I really am.” 

Milton was a Puritan, but not of that narrow-minded, ascetic variety whose 
peculiarities we usually connect with the name. When Charles II came to the 
throne it was to be expected that Milton would be one of those for whom there 
would be no mercy. He had been accessory, both before and after the fact, to the 
execution of Charles I, and had filled an Important post under Cromwell. His 
name, however, was not on the long list of those excluded from the benefits of the 
Bill of Indemnity, and when it was published, in August, 1660, he emerged from 
the hiding-place in which he had been for some time concealed. 

His prose writings pertained to the political and theological questions of his 
time, and are now no longer read. His beautiful odes to mirth and melancholy, 
“L’Allegro” and “11 Penseroso”; the “Masque of Comus,” prepared for what we 
would call an amateur theatrical entertainment; his “Samson Agonistes”; his 
“Hymn to the Nativity,” and, above all, the “Paradise Lost,” continue to be 
studied by every lover of noble literature. 

We should not, however, allow our admiration for Milton’s poetry to cause us 
to forget his services to the cause of civil and religious liberty. It is not to be 
expected that many people will ever read his tracts against the pretensions of the 
Church, justifying the execution of the king, or even the powerful argument by 
which he attempted to prevent the recall of the Stuarts and to perpetuate the Com¬ 
monwealth after Cromwell’s death. Their phraseology seems to us stilted and the 
style antiquated and verbose, but if we will remember the changes which two cen- 


64 


JOHN MILTON. 


turies and a half have caused in our manner of expression, we shall be able to 
appreciate the grace and force of the language, the vast learning and high purpose 
of the author, and we will understand their great intluence on the thought of 
Milton’s time. In 1644 he addressed to Parliament the most masterly of his 
prose writings, the “ Areopagitica; a Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed Print¬ 
ing.” It is, perhaps, the most able argument ever produced upon the subject, 
and not only for this reason, but because of its noble statement of the value of 
good books, deserves to be read and reread by every thinking person. 



EVE’S ACCOUNT OF HER CREATION. 
Paradise Lost, IV. 

HAT day I oft remember, when from sleep 
I first awaked, and found myself reposed. 

Under a shade, on flowers, much wonder¬ 
ing where 

And what I was, whence thither brought, and how. 

Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound 
Of waters issued from a cave, and spread 
Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved. 

Pure as the expanse of heaven : I thither went 
With unexperienced thought, and laid me down 
On the green bank, to look into the clear 
Smooth lake, that to me seem’d another sky. 

As I bent down to look, just opposite 
A shape within the watery gleam appear’d. 

Bending to look on me : I started back. 

It started back; but pleased I soon return’d. 

Pleased it return’d as soon, with answering looks 
Of sympathy and love : there I had fix’d 
Mine eyes till now, and pined wfith vain desire. 

Had not a voice thus warn’d me: “ What thou 
seest. 

What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself; 

With thee it came and goes; but follow me. 



And I will bring thee where no shadow stays 
Thy coming and thy soft embraces; he 
Whose image thou art: him thou shalt enjoy 
Inseparably thine; to him shalt bear 
Multitudes like thyself, and thence be call’d 
Mother of human race.” What could I do. 

But follow straight, invisibly thus led? 

Till I espied thee, fair indeed, and tall. 

Under a platane; yet, methought, less fair. 

Less winning soft, less amiably mild. 

Than that smooth watery image : back I turn’d; 
Thou, following, criedst aloud,“ Return, fair Eve, 
Whom fliest thou? whom thou fliest, of him thou 
art. 

His flesh, his bone; to give thee being I lent 
Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart. 
Substantial life, to have thee by my side 
Henceforth an individual solace dear. 

Part of my soul, I seek thee, and thee claim. 

My other half.” With that, thy gentle hand 
Seized mine : I yielded ; and from that time see 
How beauty is excell’d by manly grace. 

And wisdom, which alone is truly fair. 


INVOCATION TO LIGHT. 
Paradise Lost, III. 


AIL, holy Light ! offspring of heaven first 
born. 

Or of the Eternal co-eternal beam. 

May I express thee unblamed ? since God is 
light. 

And never but in unapproached light - 
Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee. 

Bright effluence of bright essence increate. 

Or hear’st thou rather, pure ethereal stream. 
Whose fountain who shall tell? Before the sun. 


Before the heavens, thou wert, and at the voice 
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest 
The rising world of waters dark and deep. 

Won from the void and formless infinite. 

Thee I revisit now with bolder wing. 

Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detain’d 
In that obscure sojourn ; while in my flight. 
Through utter and through middle darkness borne. 
With other notes than to the Orphean lyre, 

I sung of Chaos and eternal Night; 












JOHN MILTON. 


65 


Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down 
The dark descent, and up to reascend, 

Though hard and rare: thee I revisit safe, 

And feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou 
Revisit’st not these eyes, that roll in vain 
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; 

So thick a drop serene hath quench’d their orbs, 
Or dim suffusion veil’d. Yet not the more 
Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt 
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, 

Smit with the love of sacred song ; but chief 
Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath. 
That wash thy hallow’d feet, and warbling flow, 
Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget 
Those other two equall’d with me in fate. 

So were I equall’d with them in renown. 

Blind Thamyris and blind Mjconides, 

And Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old : 

Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move 


Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird 
Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid 
Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year 
Seasons return ; but not to me returns 
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn. 

Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose. 

Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; 

But cloud instead, and ever-during dark 
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men 
Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair. 
Presented with a universal blank 
Of nature’s works, to me expunged and rased. 
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 

So much the rather thou, celestial Light, 

Shine inward, and the mind through all her 
powers 

Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from thence 
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
Of things invisible to mortal sight. 


FROM L’ALLEGRO. 



“ From betwixt two aged oaks 
Wliere Corydoii and Thyrsis Allegro. 


ASTE thee. Nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest and youthful Jollity, 

Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, 
Nods and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, 

5 


Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek. 

And love to live in dimple sleek; 
Sport that wrinkled care derides. 

And laughter holding both his sides. 
Come, and trip it, as you go. 

On the light fantastic toe; 

And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty ; 
And, if I give thee honordue. 

Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 

To live with her, and live with thee, 
In imreproved pleasures free. 

To hear the lark begin his flight. 

And singing startle the dull Night, 
From his watch-tower in the skies. 
Till the dappled Dawn doth rise ; 
Then to come in spite of sorrow. 

And at my window bid good morrow. 
Through the sweet-brier or the vine. 
Or the twisted eglantine : 

While the cock, with lively din. 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin. 
And to the stack or the barn door 
Stoutly struts his dames before. 


And ever, against eating cares. 

Lap me in soft Lydian airs, 

Married to immortal verse ; 

Such as the meeting soul may pierce. 

In notes, with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out. 

With wanton heed and giddy cunning; 
The melting voice through mazes running. 









66 


JOHN MILTON. 


Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony ; 

That Orpheus’ self may heave his head 
From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 


Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half-regained Eurydice. 

These delights if thou cans’t give. 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 


-•O'^O.- 


A BOOK NOT A DEAD THING. 
“ Areopagitica.” 


DENY not but that it is of the greatest 
concernment in the church and common¬ 
wealth to have a vigilant eye how books 
demean themselves, as well as men ; and there¬ 
after to confine, imprison, and do sharpest justice 
on them as malefactors. For books are not abso¬ 
lutely dead things, but do contain a progeny 
of life in them to be as active as that soul was 
whose progeny they are. Nay, they do preserve, 
as in a vial, the purest efficacy and extraction of 
that intellect that bred them. I know they are as 
lively and as vigorously productive as those fab¬ 
ulous dragon’s teeth ; and, being sown up and 
down, may chance to spring up armed men. And 
yet, on the other hand, unless wariness be used, 
as good almost kill a man as kill a good book. 
Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature— 
God’s image ; but he who destroys a good book 
kills reason itself—kills the image of God, as it 


were, in the eye. Alany a man lives a burden to 
the earth, but a good book is the precious life¬ 
blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured 
up on purpose to a life beyond life. It is true no 
age can restore a life whereof, perhaps, there is no 
great loss; and revolutions of ages do not oft re¬ 
cover the loss of a rejected truth, for the want of 
which whole nations fare the worse. 

We should be wary, therefore, what persecution 
we raise against the living labors of public men ; 
how we spill that seasoned life of man preserved 
and stored up in books, since we see a kind of 
homicide may be thus committed—sometimes a 
martyrdom ; and if it extend to a whole impres¬ 
sion, a kind of massacre, whereof the execution 
ends not in the slaying of an elemental life, 
but strikes at the ethereal essence, the breath of 
reason itself—slays an immortality rather than 
a life. 


-"O^.- 


FROM THE HYMN TO THE NATIVITY. 


T was the winter wild. 

While the heaven-born child 

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger 
lies; 

Nature, in awe to him. 

Had doff’d her gaudy trim, 

With her great Master so to sympathize ; 

It was no season then for her 

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. 



No war or battle’s sound 
Was heard the world around. 

The idle spear and shield were high up hung; 
The hooked chariot stood 
Unstain’d with hostile blood ; 

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; 


And kings sat still with awful eve. 

As if thev surely knew their sovereign Lord was 
by. 

But peaceful was the night. 

Wherein the Prince of Light 

His reign of peace upon the earth began : 

The winds, with wonder whist. 

Smoothly the waters kist. 

Whispering new joys to the mild ocean. 

Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 

While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed 
wave. 


The stars, with deep amaze. 
Stand fix’d in steadfast gaze. 










JOHN MILTON. 67 


Bending one way their precious influence; 

And will not take their flight, 

For all the morning light, 

Or Lucifer, that often warn’d them thence ; 

But in their glimmering orbs did glow. 

Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them 

go- 


The shepherds on the lawn. 

Or e’er the point of dawn. 

Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; 

Full little thought they, than 
That the mighty Pan 

Was kindly come to live with them below ; 
Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep. 

Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy 
keep. 


When such music sweet 
Their hearts and ears did greet, 

As never was by mortal finger strook ; 
Divinely-warbled voice 
Answering the stringed noise. 

As all their souls in blissful rapture took : 

The air, such pleasures loathe to lose. 

With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly 
close. 


The oracles are dumb. 

No voice or hideous hum 

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiv¬ 
ing. 

.Vpollo from his shrine 
Can no more divine. 


With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. 
No mighty trance, or breathed spell. 

Inspires the pale eyed priest from the prophetic 
cell. 

The lonely mountains o’er 
And the resounding shore, 

A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; 
From haunted spring and dale. 

Edged with poplar pale. 

The parting Genius is with sighing sent: 

With flower-inwoven tresses torn, 

The Nymphs, in twilight shade of tangled thickets, 
mourn. 

In consecrated earth. 

And on the holy hearth. 

The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight 
plaint. 

In urns and altars round, 

A drear and dying sound 

Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; 
And the chill marble seems to sweat. 

While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted 
seat. 

But see, the Virgin bless’d 
Hath laid her Babe to rest; 

Time is, our tedious song should here have 
ending: 

Heaven’s youngest teemed star 
Hath fix’d her polish’d car. 

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attend¬ 
ing, 

And all about the courtly stable 
Bright-harness’d angels sit in order serviceable. 


••o^o«- 


THE DEPARTURE FROM EDEN. 
“ Paradise Lost.” Book XII . 


O spake our mother Eve, and Adam heard. 
Well pleased, but answered not; for now 
too nigh 

The Archangel stood, and from the other hill 
To their fixed station all in bright array 
'Fhe Cherubim descended ; on the ground 
Gliding meteorus, as the evening mist 
Risen from a river o’er the marish glides. 

And gathers ground fast at the laborer’s heel 
Homeward returning. High in front advanced 
The brandished sword of God before them blazed 
Fierce as a comet ; which with torrid heat. 

And vapor as the Libyan air adust. 

Began to parch that temperate clime. Whereat 


In either hand the hastening angel caught 
Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate 
Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast 
To the subjected })lain ; then disappeared. 

They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld 
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat. 

Waved over by that flaming brand, the gate 
With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms. 
Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them 
soon : 

The world was all before them, where to choose 
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. 
They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, 
Through Ede-n took their solitary way. 






ALEXANDER POPE. 

THE POET OF SOCIETY. 


“ If Pope must yield to other poets in point of fertility of fancy, yet in point of propriety, closeness, and elegance 
of diction he can yield to none .”—Joseph IVarloti. 



HE merits of Pope’s works have long been a fertile subject of critical 
discussion. If his “rhymes too often supply the defects of his 
reasons,” it is nevertheless true that few poets have furnished so 
many well-known lines which express in apt and concise language 
an elevating, philosophic thought. 

He was so deformed that he was known by the nickname of 
“The Interrogation Point,” and so small that he used a high chair 
at table ; so weak and sickly that he must be continually tied up in bandages ; and 
so sensitive to cold that he was always wrapped in furs and flannels, and encased 
his feet in three pairs of stockings. But his dress was fastidious and his manners 
elegant, though he must continually bear the coarse jests about his afflictions which 
the rude manners of the time allowed to pass as wit. 

Pope’s sickly youth prevented his being educated like other boys, and his 
training was received at home and was very irregular. Before he was twelve years 
old he had written a number of poems, most of which he afterward destroyed. 

“As yet a child, and all unknown to fame, 

I lisped in numbers and the numbers came.’’ 


He had already published his “Pastorals” and “Messiah,” and the “Essay 
on Criticism,” when, in 1713, he took up the study of painting in his native city 
of London. • His eyes failed, however, and he abandoned his purpose of becoming 
an artist. 

He now issued proposals for publishing a translation of Homer’s “Iliad,” in 
six volumes, at a guinea a volume. The project was favorably received, and a 
large number of copies were subscribed for. The volumes appeared at various 
times, from 1715 to 1720, and yielded the author a magnificent return, equal to about 
ninety thousand dollars of our money. He was thus enabled to purchase the lease 
of an attractive villa at Twickenham, which was his home during his remaining 
years. He died in 1744, at the age of fifty-six. 

Beside those already mentioned, his principal works are an “ Epistle of Eloise 
to Abelard,” an edition of Shakespeare, a translation of the “Odyssey,” “The 
Dunciad,” and the “ Essay on Man.” 


68 


















ALEXANDER POrE. 


69 


“ The Dunciad ” is a sarcastic reply to a host of critics who had attacked him, 
and of most ot whom the only remembrance is their names preserved in this work, 
which was said to have fallen among his opponents like an exterminating 
thunderbolt. 




ADDRESS TO BOLINGBROKE. 
From the “Essay on Man.” 


OME, then, my Friend, my Genius, come 
along ; 

O master of the poet and the song ! 

And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends, 
To Man’s low passions, or their glorious ends, 
Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise. 

To fall with dignity, with temper rise; 

Form’d by thy converse, happily to steer 
From grave to gay, from lively to severe; 

Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease. 

Intent to reason, or polite to please, 

O ! while, along the stream of time, thy name 
Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, 

Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, 


Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale? . 

When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, 
Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy 
foes. 

Shall then this verse to future age pretend 
Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend ? 
That, urged by thee, I turn’d the tuneful art 
From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart; 
For wit’s false mirror held up nature’s light; 
Show’d erring pride, whatever is, is right? 

That reason, passion, answer one great aim; 

That true self-love and social are the same; 

That Virtue only makes our bliss below ; 

And all our knowledge is, ourselves to know ! 



-.o^o>- 


TRUST IN PROVIDENCE. 


From the “Essay on Man.” 


EAVEN from all creatures hides the book 
of fate. 

All but the page prescribed—their present 
state ; 

From brutes what men, from men what spirits, 
know; 

Or who could suffer, being here below? 

The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day. 

Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? 
Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food. 

And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. 
O blindness to the future ! kindly given. 

That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven ; 



Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 

A hero perish, or a sparrow fall; 

Atoms or systems into ruin hurled. 

And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 

Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions 
soar; 

Wait the great teacher. Death, and God adore. 
What future bliss, He gives thee not to know. 

But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 

Hope springs eternal in the human breast; 

Man never is but always to be blest. 

The soul (uneasy, and confined) from home. 

Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 


-. 0 -^ 0 .- 


PRIDE. 

From the “Essay on Criticism.” 


F all the causes which conspire to blind 
Man’s erring judgment, and misguide the 
mind. 

What the weak head with strongest bias rules, 

Is Pride, the never-failing vice of fools. 


Whatever Nature has in worth denied, 

She gives in large recruits of needful Pride ! 

For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find 
What wants in blood and spirits, swell’d with 
wind. 













70 


ALEXANDER POPE. 


Pride, where Wif fails, steps in to our defense, 
And fills up all the mighty void of sense. 

If once right reason drives that cloud away 
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. 

'Frust not yourself; but, your defects to know, 
Make use of every friend—and every foe. 

A little learning is a dangerous thing ! 

Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring : 
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain. 
And drinking largely sobers us again. 

Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts. 
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts, 


While, from the bounded level of our mind. 

Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind ; 
But more advanced, behold with strange surprise 
New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 

So pleased at first the towering Alps we try. 
Mount o’er the vales, and seem to tread the sky; 
Th’ eternal snows appear already past. 

And the first clouds and mountains seem the last; 
But, those attain’d, we tremble to survey 
The growing labors of the lengthen’d way ; 

Th’ increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes. 
Hills peep o’er hills, and Alps on Alps arise ! 


-•©♦o.- 

THE SCALE OF BEING. 

From the “ Essay on Man.” 


m AR as Creation’s ample range extends. 

The scale of sensual, mental powers as¬ 
cends : 

Mark how it mounts to man’s imperial race. 

From the green myriads in the peopled grass; 
What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme. 
The mole’s dim curtain and the lynx’s beam : 

Of smell, the headlong lioness between. 

And hound sagacious on the tainted green ; 

Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood. 

To that which warbles through the vernal wood ; 
The spider’s touch, how exquisitely fine ! 

Feels at each thread, and lives along the line: 

In the nice bee, what sense, so subtly true, 


From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew? 
How Instinct varies in the grovelling swine. 
Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine ! 
’Twixt that, and Reason, what a nice barrier ! 
Forever separate, yet forever near ! 

Remembrance and Reflection, how allied ; 

What thin partitions Sense from Thought di¬ 
vide ! 

And Middle natures, how they long to join. 

Yet never i)ass the insuperable line ! 

Without this just gradation, could they be 
Subjected, these to those, or all to thee? 

'I'he powers of all, subdued by thee alone. 

Is not thy Reason all these powers in one ? 


-^•0^0*- 


SOUND AN ECHO TO THE SENSE. 
From the “Essay on Criticism.” 


IS not enough no harshness gives offense. 
The sound must seem an Echo to the 
sense : 

Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows. 

And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; 
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore. 
The hoarse,rough verse should like the torrent roar. 


When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to 
throw, 

The line too labors, and the words move slow : 
Not so when swift Camilla scours the jilain, 

Flies o’er th’ unbending corn, and skims along 
the main. 



OMNIPRESENCE OF THE DEITY. 
From the “ Essay on Man.” 


LL are but parts of one stupendous whole. 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul ; 
That, changed through all, and yet in all 
the same. 

Great in the earth, as in th’ ethereal frame, 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze. 

Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees; 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent. 


Spreads undivided, operates unspent; 

Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part. 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; 

As full, as perfect, in vile Man that mourns. 
As the rapt Seraph that adores and burns ; 

To Him, no high, no low, no great, no small ; 
He fills. He bounds, connects, and equals all. 













ALEXANDER POPE. 


THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 


ITAL spark of heavenly flame ! 

Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame ! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying— 
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying ! 

Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife. 

And let me languish into life ! 

Hark ! they whisper ; Angels say. 

Sister spirit, come away. 

What is this absorbs me quite? 


Steals my senses, shuts my sight ? 
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 

The world recedes ; it disappears ! 
Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears 
With sounds seraphic ring : 

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly 
Oh Grave I where is thy Victory? 

Oh Death ! where is thy Sting ? 


THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. 


•‘gs^lATHER of all ! in every age, 

H SM In every clime adored,— 

By saint, by savage, or by sage— 
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 

Thou first great Cause, least understood. 
Who all my sense confined 

To know but this: that Thou art good. 
And that myself am blind ; 

Yet gave me in this dark estate, 

To see the good from ill ; 

And binding Nature fast in h'ate. 

Left free the human Will. 

What conscience dictates to be done. 

Or warns me not to do. 

This teach me more than hell to shun, 
'Fhat more than heaven pursue. 

What blessings thy free bounty gives 
Let me not cast away ; 

For God is paid when man receives; 

To enjoy is to obey. 

Yet not to earth’s contracted span 
Thy goodness let me bound. 

Or Thee the Lord alone of man. 

When thousand worlds are round. 

Let not this weak, unknowing hand 
Presume 'Fhy bolts to throw. 


And deal damnation round the land 
On each I Judge Thy foe. 

If I am right. Thy grace impart 
Still in the right to stay ; 

If I am wrong, oh teach my heart 
To find that better way. 

Save me alike from foolish pride 
Or impious discontent. 

At aught Thy wisdom has denied 
Or aught Thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another’s woe. 

To hide the fault I see ; 

That mercy I to others show. 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so. 
Since quickened by Thy breath; 

Oh, lead me, wheresoe’er I go. 

Through this day’s life or death. 

This day be bread and peace my lot: 
All else beneath the sun 

Thou knowest it best, bestowed or not. 
And let Thy will be done 1 

To Thee, whose temple is all space. 
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies. 

One chorus let all being raise; 

All Nature’s incense rise. 











ISAAC WATTS. 

WRITER OF CHRISTIAN HYMNS. 

HE “Hymns,” “Psalms,” and “Songs for Children” of Dr. Watts 
have been more read and committed to memory, have exerted more 
holy influences, and made more lasting impressions for good upon 
the human heart than the productions of any other writer of verse. 
But Isaac Watts does not hold high rank as a poet, and during 
his lifetime was quite as much known as a philosopher and 
theologian as for his poetical works. Indeed, his “Logic” and 
“Improvement of the Mind” may still be regarded as standard books. His 
poems are all of a religious character, many of them having been written for 
children. He versified the entire book of Psalms, and many of his “Hymns” 
find a place in the hymn-books of all Christian denominations. It is their ready 
adaptation to musical rendering, their broad Christian spirit, and their beautiful and 
tender simplicity, rather than their artistic merits as poems, which have endeared 
these hymns to so many and such widely different people. 

Isaac Watts was a precocious child ; he composed verses, as we are told, 
before he was three years old, began to study Latin at four, and could read easy 
authors at five. Being a Dissenter, he could not enter one of the Universities, 
but received a thorough education, and became tutor in a private family. In 1698 
he was chosen assistant minister of the Independent congregation in.Mark Lane, 
London, of which he became pastor in 1702. Owing to feeble health he resigned 
this charge, and in 1712 was invited by Sir Thomas Abney, of Abney Park, near 
London, to become an inmate of his family. Here he remained during the remain¬ 
ing thirty-six years of his life, preaching not infrequently and writing many books 
in prose and verse. He continued to receive from his congregation the salary 
which they insisted upon his accepting, and there were many and continuous 
evidences of the love and esteem in which he was held, not only by those of his 
immediate circle, but by the general public. He died in 1748, at the age of 
seventy-four. 

“It is the plain promises of the Gospel,” said he, near his death, “that are my 
support; and I bless God they are plain promises, and do not require much labor 
and pains to understand them, for I can do nothing now but look into my Bible for 
some promise to support me, and live upon that.” 

“He is one of the few poets,” says Dr. Johnson, “with whom youth and 

72 













ISAAC WAITS. 


73 


ignorance may be safely pleased ; and happy will be that reader whose mind is 
disposed, by his verses or his prose, to copy his benevolence to man and his 
reverence to God.” 



THE ROSE. 


OW fair is the rose ! what a beautiful flower, 
The glory of April and May ! 

But the leaves are beginning to fade in an 
hour. 

And they wither and die in a day. 

Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast. 
Above all the flowers of the field ; 

When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colors 
lost. 

Still how sweet a perfume it will yield ! 


So frail is the youth and the beauty of men. 
Though they bloom and look gay like the 
rose; 

But all our fond cares to preserve them is vain. 
Time kills them as fast as he goes. 

Then I’ll not be proud of my youth nor my 
beauty. 

Since both of them wither and fade ; 

But gain a good name by well doing my duty ; 
This will scent like a rose when I’m dead. 



THE EARNE 

NFINITE Truth, the life of my desires. 

Come from the sky, and join thyself to 
me : 

I’m tired with hearing, and this reading 
tires ; 

But never tired of telling thee, 

’Tis thy fair face alone my spirit burns to see. 


“ Speak to my soul, alone ; no other hand 

Shall mark my path out with delusive art : 
All nature, silent in His presence, stand ; 
Creatures, be dumb at his command. 

And leave his single voice to whisper to my 
heart. 


THERE IS A LAND 

HERE is a land of pure delight. 

Where saints immortal reign ; 

Infinite day excludes the night, 

And pleasures banish pain. 

There everlasting Spring abides. 

And never-withering flowers; 

Death, like a narrow sea, divides 
This heavenly land from ours. 

Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood 
Stand dressed in living green ; 

So to the Jews old Canaan stood, 

While Jordan rolled between. 


r student! 

“ Retire, my soul, within thyself retire. 

Away from sense and every outward show : 

Now let my thoughts to loftier themes 
aspire; 

My knowledge now on wheels of fire. 

May mount and spread above, surveying all 
below. ’ ’ 

The Lord grows lavish of His heavenly light. 
And pours whole floods on such a mind as 
this : 

Fled from the eyes, she gains a piercing sight. 
She dives into the infinite, 

And sees unutterable things in that unknown 
abyss. 


OF PURE DELIGHT. 

But timorous mortals start and shrink 
To cross this narrow sea. 

And linger shivering on the brink. 

And fear to launch away. 

Oh ! could we make our doubts remove— 
Those gloomy doubts that rise— 

And see the Canaan that we love 
With unbeclouded eyes; 

Could we but climb where Moses stood. 
And view the landscape o’er, 

Not Jordan’s stream nor Death’s cold flood 
Should fright us from the shore. 













74 


ISAAC WATTS. 


LOOKING UPWARD. 


HE heavens invite mine eye, 

The stars salute me round ; 
Father, 1 blush, I mourn to lie 
Thus groveling on the ground. 

My warmer spirits move, 

And make attempts to fly ; 

I wish aloud for wings of love 
To raise me swift and high. 

Beyond those crystal vaults, 

And all their sparkling balls ; 


They’re but the porches to thy courts, 
And paintings on thy walls. 

Vain world, farewell to you ; 

Heaven is my native air : 

I bid my friends a short adieu. 
Impatient to be there. 

I feel my powers released 
From their old fleshy clod ; 

Fair guardian, bear me up in haste. 
And set me near ipy God. 



-•©♦o*- 

MY DEAR REDEEMER. 


iY DEAR Redeemer, and my Lord! 

I I read my duty in Thy word ; 

But in Thy life the law appears. 
Drawn out in living characters. 

Such was Thy truth, and such Thy zeal. 
Such deference to 'bhy Father’s will. 

Such love, and meekness so divine, 

I would transcribe, and make them mine. 


Cold mountains, and the midnight air. 
Witnessed the fervor of Thy prayer: 

The desert Thy temptations knew— 

Thy conflict, and Thy victory too. 

Be thou my pattern ; make me bear 
More of thy gracious image here; 

Then God, the judge, shall own my name 
Among the followers of the Lamb. 


-'.o^o.- 


COME, WE THAT 

OME, we that love the Lord, 

.And let our joys be known ; 

Join in the song with sweet accord. 

And thus surround the throne. 

Let those refuse to sing. 

Who never knew our God ; 

But favorites of the Heavenly King 
May speak their joys abroad. 

The men of grace have found 
Glory begun below ; 


LOVE THE LORD. 

Celestial fruits on earthly ground 
From faith and hope may grow. 

The hill of Zion yields 
A thousand sacred sweets. 

Before we reach the heavenly fields. 

Or walk the golden streets. 

Then let our songs abound. 

And every tear be dry ; 

We’re marching through Emmanuel’s ground 
To fairer worlds on high. 





WHEN I SURVEY THE WONDROUS CROSS. 


|HEN 


I survey the wondrous cross 
On which the Prince of Glory died. 
My richest gain I count but loss. 

And pour contempt on all my pride. 


See from His head. His hands. His feet. 
Sorrow and love flow mingled down ! 
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet. 

Or thorns compose so rich a crown ? 


Forbid it. Lord, that I should boast 
Save in the death of Christ, my God ; 
All the vain things that charm me most 
I sacrifice them to His blood. 


Were the whole realm of Nature mine. 
That were a present far too small ; 
Love so amazing, so divine. 

Demands my soul, my life, my all. 










ISAAC WATTS. 


75 


i' 


PSALM 

n ESUS shall reign where’er the sun 
Does its successive journeys run ; 

His kingdom stretch from shore to shore, 
Till moons shall wax and wane no more. 

For him shall endless prayer be made, 

And praises throng to crown His Head ; 

His Name, like sweet perfume, shall rise 
With every morning sacrifice. 

People and realms of every tongue 
Dwell on His love with sweetest song. 

And infant voices shall proclaim 
Their early blessings on His Name. 


LXXII. 

Blessings around where’er He reigns ; 
The prisoner leaps to lose his chains; 

The weary find eternal rest. 

And all the sons of want are blest. 

Where He displays His healing power. 
Death and the curse are known no more ; 
In Him the tribe of Adam boast 
More blessings than their father lost. 

Let every creature rise, and bring 
Peculiar honors to our King ; 

Angels descend with songs again. 

And earth repeat the long Amen ! 


•o^o» 



COME, HOLY SPIRIT, HEAVENLY DOVE. 


OME, Holy Spirit, Heavenly Dove, 
With all Thy quickening powers, 
Kindle a flame of sacred love 
In these cold hearts of ours. 

Look how we grovel here below. 

Fond of these trifling toys ; 

Our souls can neither fly nor go 
To reach eternal joys ! 

In vain we tune our formal songs. 

In vain we strive to rise; 


Hosannas languish on our tongues. 
And our devotion dies. 

Dear Lord, and shall we ever lie. 

At this poor dying rate ? 

Our love so faint, so cold to Thee, 
And Thine to us so great ! 

Come, Holy Spirit, Heavenly Dove, 
With all Thy quickening jjowers; 
Come, shed abroad a Saviour’s love, 
And that shall kindle ours. 


• o^o. 


FROM ALL THAT DWELL. 


j P gt f ROM all that dwell below the skies 
ILet the Creator’s praise arise ; 

- Let the Redeemer’s name be sung. 

Through every land by every tongue ! 


Eternal are Thy mercies. Lord : 

Eternal truth attends Thy word ; 

Thy praise shall sound from shore to shore. 
Till suns shall rise and set no more. 
























THOMAS GRAY. 

AUTHOR OF THE IMMORTAL ELEGY. 

SINGLE noble masterpiece, the “Elegy Written in a Country 
Churchyard” is the foundation of the fame of Thomas Gray. He 
won distinction at Cambridge, and traveled abroad with Horace 
Walpole, who complained that Gray “ was too serious a companion 
for me ; he was for antiquities, etc., while I was for balls and 
plays. The fault was mine.” 

Returning to England after the death of his father. Gray 
spent the rest of his life at Cambridge. He was offered the post of poet laureate 
in 1757, but declined it. He became Professor of History at Cambridge, but was 
unfit for the office and delivered no lectures. 

The “Elegy” was printed in 1750. Eew poems were ever so popular. It 
ran through eleven editions, and has ever since been one of those few favorite 
pieces that every one has by heart. His other poems contain a great number of 
famous lines, but are themselves little known. He died in 1771, in the fifty-fifth 
year of his age. 

Gray was small and delicate in person, handsome and refined, fond of fashion¬ 
able dress, and preferred to be known as a “gentleman ” rather than as a poet. 
Lowell says that the “ Elegy ” won its popularity, not through any originality of 
thought, but far more through originality of sound. Its simple language and the 
depth and sincerity of emotion which it expresses have given it a prominent place 
among the finest monuments of our literature. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 


1 HE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
j The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea. 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary 
way. 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 


Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 


Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
d'he moping owl does to the moon complain 
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 



76 



























THOMAS GRAY. 


77 


Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 
heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid. 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed. 


Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 
How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy 
stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 

Their homely Joys, and destiny obscure ; 



Gray’s Monument in the Churchyard at Stoke Pogis. 


The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire’s return. 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 


Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Power, 

And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e’er gave, 
Await alike th’ inevitable hour. 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 














THOMAS GRAY. 


/S 


Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 

If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise. 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted 
vault 

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust. 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire. 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d. 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of Time did ne’er unroll; 

Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage. 

And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 

The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear: 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood. 

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife. 
Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray; 

Along the cool sequester’d vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 


THE E 

ERE rests his head upon the lap of earth 
A youth, to Fortune and to Fame un¬ 
known ; 

Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth. 
And Melancholy mark’d him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send. 


Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
deck’d 

Implore the passing tribute of a sigh. 

For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonor’d dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 

If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 

“ Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn : 

“There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech. 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove : 

Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn. 

Or crazed with Care, or cross’d in hopeless 
Love. 

“One morn I miss’d him on the ’custom’d hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill. 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: 

“The next, with dirges due in sad array. 

Slow through the church-way jiath we saw him 
borne: 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” 


He gave to misery (all he had) a tear. 

He gain’d from Heaven (’twas all he wish’d) a 
friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 

The bosom of his Father and his God. 








OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


THE MOST CHARMING AND VERSATILE WRITER OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 



O writer of English is more universally loved and appreciated than 
the shiftless little Irishman who claimed to be a physician, but who 
picked up a precarious living by writing, and who was the butt of 
the brilliant company, Johnson, Burke, Reynolds, Garrick, and 
others, who formed a famous literary club. Dr. Johnson says, 
“No man was more foolish when he had not a pen in his hand or 
more wise when he hadand the humorous epitaph, composed to 
tease him by his friends, “Who wrote like an angel, but talked like ‘ Poor Poll,’ ” 
correctly represents the esteem in which they held him. 

Goldsmith was born in County Longford, Ireland, in 1728. His father was a 
clergyman of the Established Church and very poor; but some of his relatives were 
in comfortable circumstances: they contributed funds to send him to Dublin Univer¬ 
sity as a sizar, or “ poor scholar.” He entered in i 744 and took his degree five 
years after. He went home, ostensibly to study for the Church. In two years he 
presented himself as a candidate for ordination, but was rejected. He tried tutor¬ 
ship, and several other things, with no result. An uncle gave him ^50 to go to 
London, where he proposed to study law. He got as far as Dublin, where he lost 
all his money at the gaming-table, and went back to his friends for a while. 
'Poward the end of 1752 they sent him to Edinburgh to study medicine. He ran 
through his money and tied to the Continent, where he made an extended tour, 
with little or no means of support except his fiddle. 

Early in 1756, Goldsmith, now about twenty-eight, made his way back to 
London, ragged and penniless. During the next two or three years we catch 
glimpses of him as assistant to an apothecary; as a “ corrector of the press ” for 
Richardson, the novelist; as usher in a school ; and finally as a “hack-writer” for 
the Monthly Review. Once we find him an unsuccessful applicant at the College 
of Surgeons for the position of hospital-mate. Somehow he managed to keep his 
head above water, for in 1759 he published a small volume entitled “An Inquiry 
into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe.” This attracted some notice, 
and made the author known among literati and publishers. He wrote for several 
thers for the Public Ledger, to which he furnished a series 
which were soon republished under the title of “ The Citi- 
Goldsmith was now able to escape from his humble garret. 
79 


newspapers, among 
of " Ciiinese Letters 
of the World.” 


zen 




















8 o 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


He made the acquaintance of men of the highest rank in- literary circles, notable 
among whom were Garrick, Burke, and Johnson, He now earned a fair income 
by literary work ; but he always managed to spend more than he earned. 

About the middle of 1761 he found himself considerably in arrears to his 
widowed landlady, who gave him the choice between three courses: to pay his bill, 
to go to prison, or to marry her. Goldsmith applied to Dr. Johnson to extricate 
him from this predicament, and put in his hand a bundle of manuscript. The 
Doctor took the manuscript, sold it to a bookseller, and handed the money to 
Goldsmith, thus saving him from going to prison or marrying the widow Fleming. 
That manuscript, which was not published until six years after, was “ The Vicar of 
Wakefield.” During the last dozen years of his life Goldsmith performed an 
immense amount of literary labor. Among these works—mainly compilations— 
are a “ History of England,” a “ History of Greece,” a “ History of Rome,” the 
“ History of Animated Nature,” “ Life of Beau Nash,” a “ Short English Grammar,” 
and a “ Survey of Experimental Philosophy.” He also wrote several very clever 
comedies, among which is “She Stoops to Conquer.” Goldsmith’s fame, however, 
rests chiefly upon “The Vicar of Wakefield,” and the two poems, “The Traveler” 
and “The Deserted Village.” These are read wherever the English language is 
spoken, and will continue the cherished possession of generation after generation. 


THE TRAVELER. 


S SOME lone miser, visiting his store. 
Bends at his treasure, counts, re-counts it 
- o’er, 

Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 

Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still. 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise. 

Pleased with each good that Heaven to man sup¬ 
plies ; 

Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall. 

To see the sum of human bliss so small; 

And oft I wish amidst the scene to find 
Some spot to real happiness consigned, 

Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest. 
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot below 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 

The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own. 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas. 

And his long nights of revelry and ease. 

The naked negro, panting at the Line, 

Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine ; 

Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave. 

And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam; 

His first, best country, ever is at home. 


And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. 

And estimate the blessings which they share. 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind; 

As different good, by Art or Nature given 
To different nations, makes their blessings even. 
Nature, a mother kind alike to all. 

Still grants her bliss at labor’s earnest call ; 

With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra’s cliffs as Arno’s shelvy side ; 

And though the rocky-crested summits frown. 
Those rocks by custom turn to beds of down. 
From Art more various are the blessings sent. 
Wealth, Commerce, Honor, Liberty, Content ; 
Yet these each other’s power so strong contest. 
That either seems destructive of the rest. 

Where Wealth and Freedom reign. Contentment 
fails. 

And Honor sinks where Commerce long pre¬ 
vails. 

Hence every State, to one loved blessing prone. 
Conforms and models life to that alone. 

Each to the favorite happiness attends. 

And spurns the plan that aims at other ends. 

Till, carried to excess, in each domain. 

This favorite good begets peculiar pain. 

















■ '■ ' 'w'if *' ■ 


:.a=i^'irv^;z?. 


POETS OF ENGLAN 

































OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


8i 


THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 


WEET Auburn! loveliest village of the 

Where health and plenty cheered the labor¬ 
ing swain, 

Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, 

And parting Summer’s lingering blooms delayed ! 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease. 

Seats of my youth, when every sport Could please ! 
How often have I loitered o’er thy green. 

Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 
How often have I paused on every charm— 

The sheltered cot, the^cultivated farm. 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topped the neighboring 
hill. 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have I blessed the coming day. 

When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play, 

And all the village train, from labor free, 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree; 
While many a pastime circled in the shade. 

The young contending, as the old surveyed. 

And many a gambol frolicked o’er the ground. 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went 
round; 

And still as each repeated pleasure tired, 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired. 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn. 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant’s hand is seen. 

And desolation saddens all thy green ; 

One only master grasps the whole domain. 

And half a village stints thy smiling plain. 

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 

But choked with sedges works its weary way; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 


Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 

And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 

Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 

And the long grass o’ertops the mouldering wall; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler’s 
hand. 

Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 

Where wealth accumulates and men decay; 
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, 

A breath can make them as a breath has made; 
But a bold peasantry, their country’s pride. 

When once destroyed can never be supplied. 

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour. 

Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant’s power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew. 
Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train. 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

Sweet was the sound when oft at evening’s close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; 

There, as I passed, with careless steps and slow. 
The mingling notes came softened from below : 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung. 

The sober herd that lowed to meet their young. 
The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool. 

The playful children just let loose from school. 
The watch-dog’s voice that bayed the whispering 
wind. 

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; — 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail; 

No cheerful murmur fluctuates in the gale ; 

No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread. 

But all the bloomy blush of life is fled. 


-.o^o<-- 


THE VILLAGE PREACHER. 
From “The Deserted Village.” 


EAR yonder copse, where once the garden 
smiled. 

And still where many a garden flower 
grows wild; 

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
The village preacher’s modest mansion rose. 

A man he was to all the country dear. 

And passing rich with forty pounds a year; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 

Nor e’er had changed, nor wish’d to change his 
place; 

6 


Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
By doctrines fashion’d to the varying hour ; 

Far other aims his heart had learn’d to prize. 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 

His house was known to all the vagrant train. 

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their 
pain; 

The long-remember’d beggar was his guest. 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 
The ruin’d spendthrift, now no longer proud. 
Claim’d kindred there, and had his claims allow’d; 








82 


OLIVER GOLDSMIIH. 


The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 

Sat by his fire, and talk’d the night away; 

Wept o’er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done. 
Shoulder’d his crutch and show’d how fields were 
won. 

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to 
glow. 

And quite forget their vices in their woe ; 

Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 

His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 

And e’en his failings lean’d to Virtue’s side ; 

P>ut in his duty prompt at every call. 

He watch’d and wept, he pray’d and felt for all. 
•And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the, skies; 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 

And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay’d. 
The reverend chaini)ion stood. At his control, 


Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whisper’d praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 

His looks adorn’d the venerable place ; 

Truth from his lips prevail’d with double sway. 
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man. 

With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 

E’en children follow’d with endearing wile. 

And pluck’d his gown, to share the good man’s 
smile ; 

His ready smile a parent’s warmth exprest. 

Their welfare pleased him,>and their cares distrest; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven : 

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 
spread. 

Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 


A CITY NIGHT-PIECE. 

“ Lettkrs of a Citizen of the World."’ 


HE clock had just struck two ; the exjiiring 
taper rises and sinks in the socket; the 
watchman forgets the hour in slumber ; 
the laborious and the happy are at rest ; and 
nothing wakes but meditation, guilt, revelry, and 
despair. The drunkard once more fills the de¬ 
stroying bowl ; the robber walks his midnight 
round; and the suicide lifts his guilty arm against 
his own sacred person. 

Let me no longer waste the night over the page 
of antiquity, or the sallies of contemporary genius, 
but pursue the solitary walk, where vanity, ever- 
changing, but a few hours jiast, walked before me 
—where she kept up the pageant, and now, like a 
froward child, seems hushed with her own impor¬ 
tunities. 

What a gloom hangs all around ! The dying 
lami) feebly emits a yellow gleam; no sound is 



heard but of the chiming clock or the distant 
watch-dog; all the bustle of human pride is for¬ 
gotten. An hour like this may well display the 
emptiness of human vanity. 

There will come a time when this temporary 
solitude may be made continual, and the city 
itself, like its inhabitants, fade away and leave a 
desert in its room. 

\Vhat cities, as great as this, have once triumphed 
in existence, had their victories as great, joy as 
just and as unbounded, and with short-sighted 
presumption promised themselves immortality! 
Posterity can hardly trace the situation of some ; 
the sorrowful traveler wanders over the awful ruins 
of others; and, as he beholds, he learns wisdom 
and feels the transience of every sublunary posses¬ 
sion. 








BEST LOVED OE SCOTTISH POETS. 


HE lite of Robert Burns was not a model one. In some ways, and 
those the most important, its story is more useful for the warnings 
it conveys than for the example it affords. But we shall not be 
able to understand his poems if we do not know the story of his 
life, and not to know and love the poetry of Robert Burns is to 
miss the rarest, most touching, most thoroughly human note in 
English verse. 

The son of a hard-working, unsuccessful peasant farmer, his early years were 
spent in the monotonous toil of a laborer on a sterile Scottish farm. He had little 
education except that which he acquired from his father, who, as is often the case 
among Scotch peasants, was a man ot serious mind, somewhat cultivated, and of 
noble character. 

Burns early began to rhyme and to make love, two occupations which seem 
to have gone on together all through his life. His poems were handed around in 
manuscript, and he acquired in this way considerable fame. The death of his father, 
in 1 784, laid upon the young man of twenty-five the cares of the head of the family, 
a burden which he bravely assumed, but which was somehow always too heavy for 
him. Removing to a farm at Mossgiel, he fell in love with Jean Armour, the 
daughter of a mason. His difficulties on the farm, and the unpopularity into which 
his relations with Jean Armour brought him, thoroughly discouraged him. He 
determined to emigrate to the West Indies, and to procure the necessary funds, 
published, by subscription, a volume of his poems. This attracted the attention 
of literary people in Edinburgh, and on their invitation he gave up his proposed 
emigration and visited that city. His reception was most cordial. He, the uncul¬ 
tured peasant, captivated at once the refined and intelligent people among whom 
he was thrown. No poet was ever so quickly recognized. He published a 
new and enlarged edition of his poems, which yielded him nearly five hundred 

83 
















ROBERT BURNS. 


S4 

pounds; his new celebrity enabled him to secure the post of exciseman in 
Dumfriesshire, where he took a farm, having advanced nearly half ot his returns 
from the poems to ease the burdens of his mother and brother, whom he left at 
Mossgiel. 

He was married to Jean Armour, and built, largely with his own hands, the 
cottage in which they were to live at Ellisland, in Dumfries. Here, “ to make 
a happy fireside chime to weans and wife,” he labored with an energy which 
promised better things, and all the circumstances seemed to indicate that a 
happy and prosperous life lay before the young poet. 



The De’il cam fiddlin thro’ the town, 
And danc’d awa wi’ the exciseman, 
And ilka wife cry’d, “ Auld Mahaun, 
We wish you luck o’ the prize, man. 


As poet, farmer, and exciseman, he led a busy life, but he was not a suc¬ 
cessful farmer, and his office of exciseman favored his indulgence in drink. He 
gave up the farm and removed to Dumfries ; his infirmities grew upon him, and 
he became unpopular; his health failed, and he died in 1796, not yet thirty-eight 
years old. 

His poetry is not English, but Scottish. Its rollicking fun, as in “Tam 
O’Shanter’s Ride,” its touching sentiment, as in “On Turning up a Mouse’s Nest 






ROBERT BURNS. 


85 


with the Plough,” the truth and beauty of its descriptions of homely life, as in “ The 
Cotter’s Saturday Night,” have rarely been equaled in the poems of any 
language. 

Burns wrote for the people. He knew all their life, their every emotion ; he 
stirred their patriotism by such poems as “ Scots Wha ha wi’ Wallace Bled,” or 
their affection for Scotland by “ Ye Banks and Braes,” and moralized in “ The Twa 
Dogs,” and many others-, upon the circumstances of their life, and well deserves 
to be called “ the greatest poet that ever sprung from the bosom of the people 
and lived and died in an humble condition.” 





MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

Y heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not 
here ; 

My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing 
the deer; 

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe— 
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 
North ! 

The birthplace of valor, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 

The hills of the Highlands forever I love. 


Farewell to the mountains high covered with 
snow ! 

Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ! 
Farewell to the forests with wild-hanging woods ! 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods! 
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not 
here. 

My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the 
deer; 

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe— 
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. 

THE BAxNKS O’ BOON. 

E banks and braes o’ bonnie Boon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and 
fair? 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae weary fu’ o’ care ? 

Thou’ll break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons through the flowering thorn ; 
Thou minds me o’ departed joys. 

Departed—never to return ! 



Wilt thou be my dearie?” 


Oft ha’e I roved by bonnie Boon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine; 
And ilka bird sang o’ its luve. 

And fondly sae did I o’ mine. 

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, 

Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree; 

And my false lover stole my rose. 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi’ me. 













86 


ROBERT BURNS. 


MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 


HEN chill November’s surly blast 
• Made fields and forests bare, 
One evening, as 1 wander’d forth 
Along the banks of Ayr, 

I spied a man, whose aged step 
Seem’d weary’d, worn with care ; 

His face was furrow’d o’er with years. 
And hoary was his hair. 

Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ? 

(Began the reverend .sage ;) 

Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain. 


And every time has added proofs 
That man was made to mourn. 


O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 

Mis-spending all thy precious hours 
Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 

Which tenfold force give Nature’s law, 
That man was made to mourn. 




M.a.iN Was Made to Mourn. 


Or youthful pleasures rage ? 

Or haply, prest with cares and woes, 
Too soon thou hast began. 

To wander forth, with me, to mourn 
The miseries of man ! 

The sun that overhangs yon moors, 
Out-spreading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labor to support 
A haughty lordling’s pride ; 

I’ve seen yon weary winter-sun 
Twice forty times return ; 


Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood’s active might : 

Man then is useful to his kind. 

Supported is his right. 

But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn. 

Then age and want, oh ! ill-matched pair ! 
Show man was made to mourn. 

Many and sharp the numerous ills 
Inwoven with our frame ! 

More pointed still we make ourselves, 














ROBERT BURNS. 


8 


Regret, remorse, and shame ! 

And man, whose heaven-erected face 
The smiles of love adorn, 

Man’s inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 


Yet, let not this too much, my son, 
Disturb thy youthful breast : 

This partial view of human-kind 
Is surely not the last ! 

The poor, oppressed, honest man, 


Had never, sure, been born, 

Had there not been some recompense 
To comfort those that mourn ! 

O Death ! the poor man’s dearest friend. 
The kindest and the best! 

Welcome the hour my aged limbs 
Are laid with thee at rest! 

The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. 
From pomp and ])leasure torn ; 

But, oh ! a blest relief to those 
■ That weary-laden mourn ! 



“The Smith and Thee Gat Roaring Fou.” 
TAM O’SHANTER. 


'HEN chapman billies leave the street, 

I And drouthy neebors, neebors meet. 
And market days are wearing late. 

An’ folks begin to tak’ the gate; 

While we sit bousing at the nappy. 

An’ gettin’ fou and unco happy. 

We think na on the lang Scots miles. 

The mosses, waters, slaps and styles. 

That lie between us and our hame. 

Where sits our sulky sullen dame. 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm. 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 


This truth fand honest Tam O’Shanter, 

As he frae Ayr ae night did canter 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses. 
For honest men and bonnie las.ses). 

O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise. 

As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice ! 

She tauld thee well thou was a skellum, 

A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November tilt October, 

Ae market-day thou was nae sober; 

That ilka melder, wi’ the miller. 

Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
























88 


ROBERT BURNS. 


That ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on, 

The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 

That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi’ Kirton Jean till Monday. 

She prophesy’d, that late or soon. 

Thou would be found deep drown’d in Boon ; 


Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway’s auld hunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames; it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet. 
How mony lenghten’d sage advices. 
The husband frae the wife despises! 


..O'^o*- 


BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN. 



COTS wha hae wi Wallace bled, 
Scots whom Bruce has often led ; 
Welcome to your gory bed. 

Or to victorie ! 


Wha for Scotland’s king and law 
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw. 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa’ 

Let him follow me ! 


Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; 
See the front o’ battle lour ; 

See approach proud Edward’s pow’r— 
Chains and slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor-knave ? 

Wha can fill a coward’s grave ? 

Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Let him turn and flee ! 


By oppression’s woes and pains ! 
By our sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins. 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty’s in every blow ! 

Let us do or die ! 


-.o-^o*- 


THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT. 


OVEMBER chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh ; 
The shortening winter day is near a 
close; 

The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 

The blackening trains o’ craws to their repose ; 
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes : 

This night his weekly moil is at an end ; 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hame- 
ward bend. 


At length his lonely cot appears in view. 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 

Th’ expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher through 
To meet their dad, wi’ flicterin’ noise an’ glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie’s smile, 
d'he lisping infant prattling on his knee, 

Does a’ his weary carking cares beguile. 

An’ makes him quite forget his labor and his 
toil. 


Belyve the elder bairns come drappin in. 

At service out, amang the farmers roun’ ; 

Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town. 

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. 

In youthfu’ bloom, love sparkling in her e’e. 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new 
gown. 

Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee. 

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 


Wi’ joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet. 

An’ each for other’s weelfare kindly spiers 
The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnoticed fleet 
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears : 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 

The mother, wi’ her needle an’ her sheers. 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weeks the 
new; 

The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due. 










ROBERT BURNS. 


89 


But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door 
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same, 

Tells how a neebor lad cam’ o’er the moor. 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek ; 
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 
name. 

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak : 

Weel pleased the mother hears it’s nae wild worth¬ 
less rake ; 


O, happy love, where love like this is found ! 

O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declaie— 

“ If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare. 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 

In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale. 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the even¬ 
ing gale.” 



“ The sire turns o’er, \vi’ patriarchal grace, 

The big Ha’-Bible, ance his father’s pride.” 


Wi’ kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben, 

A strappan youth, he taks the mother’s eye; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill-ta’en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye : 
The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy. 
But blate an’ laithfu’, scarce can weel behave ; 
The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy 

What maks the youth sae bashfu’ an’ sae grave ; 
Weel pleased to think her bairn’s respected like 
the lave. 


The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face. 

They round the ingle form a circle wide : 

The sire turns o’er, wi’ patriarchal grace. 

The big Ha’-Bible, ance his father’s pride ; 

His bonnet reverently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets tvearin’ thin an’ bare ; 

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. 
He wales a portion with judicious care; 

And “ Let us worship God,” he says, wi’ solemn 
air. 









WILLIAM COWPER. 

POET OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. 



NE of the most pathetic characters in English literature is William 
Covvper. A sensitive child, his mother died when he was six 
years of age, and he suffered brutal persecution in boarding- 
schools, He was apprenticed to an attorney, and obtained an 
appointment in the House of Lords; but the terror with which the 
prospect of a lormal examination affected him drove him into 
insanity. He was confined for some time, and on his release 
placed himself under the care of Mr. Unwin, a clergyman in Huntingdon. The 
genial companionship of these kind friends was a constant help and suppoi't to the 
sensitive spirit of Cowper. In this family, and frequently at the suggestion of Mrs. 
Unwin, he wrote all his principal poems, including “Table Talk,” “The Progress 
of Error,” “Truth,” “ Hope,” and a great many others. 

Another friend. Lady Austen, urged him to write in a lighter strain, and it was 
at her suggestion that the delightlul ballad, “John Gilpin,” and his most'famous 
poem, “The Task,” were written. Insanity recurred several times during his life, 
and he never was able to escape from its shadow. He died, in 1800, at the age of 
sixty-nine. He was quite successful in translations from the classics; but it was in 
his “ Letters ” that he most excelled. They show him in his most amiable light, 
and Southey has pronounced him “the best of English letter-writers.” 




ON SLAVERY. 
Prom “The Task.” 


D H fora lodge in some vast wilderness. 
Some boundless contiguity of shade. 
Where rumor of oppression and deceit, 
Of unsucce.ssful or successful war 
Might never reach me more ! My ear is pained, 

• My soul is sick with every day’s report 

Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. 
There is no flesh in man’s obdurate heart— 

It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax 


That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 

He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 
Not colored like his own, and having power 
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey, 
l.ands intersected by a narrow frith 
.'Vbhor each other. Mountains interposed. 
Make enemies of nations, who had else 
Like kindred drops been mingled into one. 
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys. 

90 
























WILLIAM COWPER. 


91 


And worse than all, and most to be deplored 
As human Nature’s broadest, foulest blot, 

Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
With stri])es, that Mercy with a bleeding heart 
Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast, 
d'hen what is man ? And what man seeing this. 
And having human feelings, does not blush 
And hang his head, to think himself a man ? 


I would not have a slave to till my ground. 

To carry me, to fan me while I sleep. 

And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. 
No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart’s 
Just estimation prized above all price, 

I had much rather be myself the slave 

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 


IMAGINARY VERSES OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK DURING HIS SOLITARY 
ABODE ON JUAN FERNANDEZ. 


AM monarch of all I survey— 

My right there is none to dispute; 
From the center all round to the sea, 

I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 

O Solitude ! where are the charn»s 
That sages have seen in thy face? 

Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

I am out of humanity’s reach ; 

I must finish my journey alone. 

Never hear the sweet music of s])eech— 

I start at the sound of my own ; 

The beasts that roam over the i)lain 
My form with indifference see; 

'I'hey are so unacquainted with man, 

'liieir tameness is shocking to me. 

Society,,friendship, and love. 

Divinely bestowed upon man ! 

O, had I the wings of a dove. 

How' soon would I taste you again ! 


My sorrows I then might assuage 
In the w'ays of religion and truth— 

Might learn from the w'isdom of age. 
And be cheered by the sallies of youth. 

Ye winds that have made me your sport, 
Convey to this desolate shore 

Some cordial endearing report 
Of a land I shall visit no more ! 

My friends—do they now and then send 
A w’ish or a thought after me ? 

Oh, tell me I yet have a friend. 

Though a friend I am never to see. 

How sweet is the glance of the mind ! 
Compared with the speed of its flight 

The tempest itself lags behind. 

And the swift-winged arrows of light. 

When I think of my ow'n native land. 

In a moment I seem to be there; 

But alas ! recollection at hand 
Soon hurries me back to despair. 





LIGHT SHINING IN DARKNESS. 



OD moves in a mysterious way 
His wonders to perform ; 

He plants His footsteps in the sea. 
And rides upon the storm. 


Judge not the Lord by feeble sense. 
But trust Him for His grace; 
Behind a frowning providence 
He hides a smiling face. 


Deep in unfathomable mines. 

With never-failing skill. 

He treasures up His bright designs. 
And w'orks His sovereign will. 


His purposes will ripen fast. 
Unfolding every hour; 

The bud may have a bitter taste. 
But sw'eet w'ill be the flower. 


Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take ; 

The clouds ye so much dread 
Are big with mercy, and shall break 
In blessings on your head. 


Blind unbelief is sure to err, 
And scan His w'ork in vain : 
God is His own interpreter. 
And He will make it ])lain. 








PERCY BYSSHE SHEELEY 


HE writer of some of the most delicately beautiful verse in the Eng¬ 
lish language, Shelley passed his short life in continual rebellion 
against the most commonly accepted social laws. He was a sensi¬ 
tive child, and went to Oxford full of abhorrence of the hateful 
tyranny he had witnessed in boys’ schools, and which he imagined 
was typical of the cruelty and bigotry pervading civilized life. He 
was expelled from the University for publishing a tract avowing 
atheistic principles, and, his father refusing to receive him, he ran away with 
Harriet Westbrook, the daughter of a retired publican, and was married to her in 
Scotland. After two or three years he heartlessly abandoned his wife and 
children, and lived the remainder of his life abroad—much of the time with Byron. 

He was drowned in the Gulf of Spezzia, the sail-boat in which he had 
embarked having been caught in a sudden squall. His body was washed ashore, 
and here, on the eighteenth of July, 1822, in accordance with the quarantine laws 
of the place, was burned. 

In the thirty years of his life he had made many friends and broken many 
hearts. His admirers considered that he ushered in a new era of English poetry, 
and many of his pieces can be compared only with the work of the very Greatest 
poets. ^ 

His longer works are, ^ however, little read, and his fame rests upon his 
exquisite short poems, particularly the “ Skylark,” “ The Cloud,” “ The Sensitive 
Plant,” and “ Adonais,” a lament for the early death of the poet Keats. 




THE SENSITIVE PLANT. 


Il^wl SENSITIVE plant in a garden grew, 

young winds fed it withsilver dew , 
And it open’d its fan-like leav'es to the 
light, 

And closed them beneath the kisses of night. 

And the spring arose on the garden fair, 

Like the spirit of love felt everywhere. 

And each flower and herb on earth’s dark breast 
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 

92 


The snow-drop, and then the violet, 

Arose from the ground with warm rain wet. 

And their breath was mix’d with fresh odor sent 
From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. 


Then the pied wind-flowers, and the tulip tall. 
And narcissi, the fairest among them all. 

Who gaze oh their eyes in the stream’s recess. 
Till they die of their own dear loveliness; 

























PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 


93 


And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, 

Whom youth makes so fair, and passion so pale, 
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen 
Through their pavilions of tender green ; 

And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
Of music so delicate, soft, and intense. 

It was felt like an odor within the sense ; 

And the rose, like a nymph to the bath addrest. 
Which unveil’d the depth of her glowing breast. 


Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ; 

And the wand-like lily, which lifted up. 

As a Maenad, its moonlight-color’d cup. 

Till the fiery star, which is its eye. 

Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky; 

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 

And all rare blossoms, from every clime. 

Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 


FROM “ODE TO A 

AIL to thee, blithe spirit ! 

Bird thou never wert. 

That from heaven, or near it, 

Pourest thy full heart 


In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher and still higher. 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest. 

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever, 
singest. 

In the golden lightning 
Of the sunken sun. 

O’er which clouds are bright’ning. 

Thou dost float and run. 

Like an unbodied Joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 
Melts around thy flight ; 

Like a star of heaven. 

In the broad daylight 

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 


SKYLARK.” 

Keen are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere. 

Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white dawn clear. 

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 


All the earth and air 
With thy voice is loud. 

As, when night is bare. 

From one lonely cloud 

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is 
overflowed. 

What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee ? 

From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see. 

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought. 

Singing hymns unbidden. 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. 


• 0 ^ 0 . 


THE CLOUD. 


BRING fresh showers for the thirsting 

- From the seas and the streams ; 

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
In their noomday dreams. 

From my wings’are shaken the dews that waken 
The sweet buds every one. 

When rock’d to rest on their mother’s breast. 

As she dances about the sun. 

I wield the flail of the lashing hail. 

And whiten the green plains under; 

And then again I dissolve it in rain. 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 


I am the daughter of earth and water. 

And the nursling of the sky ; 

I ])ass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; 

I change, but I can not die. 

For after the rain, when, with never a stain. 

The pavilion of heaven is bare. 

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex 
gleams. 

Build up the blue dome of air, 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 

And out of the caverns of rain. 

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from 
the tomb, 

I rise and unbuild it again. 












GEORGH GORDON BYRON. 

THE POET OF SCORN, MISANTHROPY, AND DESPAIR. 

O writer of English has aroused more controversy, possessed more 
devoted friends and admirers, nor encountered more hostile 
criticism and deserved censure, than has Lord Byron. His 
descriptive poetry is probably unequaled, and he sometimes em¬ 
bodies noble thought in such beautiful form as to make the reader 
ready to forget the too generally vicious tone of his writings, his 
contempt for virtue, and the miserable vice in which he lived. 

He was an over-sensitive, wayward child, alternately indulged to excess and 
violently abused by his foolish mother. His father was a worthless spendthrift, 
who abandoned his wife and child when the latter was two years old. 

One of Byron’s feet was somewhat twisted, and the deformity seems to 
have been a great cause of disgust and offense to his mother, and a constant 
humiliation to him. His early life was passed in Scotland, in comparative 
poverty ; but in his eleventh year the death of a grand-uncle put him in posses¬ 
sion of a considerable estate, and made him, when he should come of age, a mem¬ 
ber of the House of Lords. He spent two years at Cambridge, and published 
a volume of poems, entitled “Hours of Idleness,” as the principal result of his 
university life. These poems are chiefly remembered because of the harsh criti¬ 
cism with which they were greeted by the Edinbiif'oh Review, and the vigorous, 
over-caustic reply which Byron published in the poetical satire called “English 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers.” Although he was, some years later, in a certain 
way, very popular, he was never again really on good terms with his fellows. He 
traveled abroad, and on his return to England published the first two cantos of 
“ Childe Harold.” It is difficult now to understand the fact, but the poem imme¬ 
diately achieved an unheard-of degree of popularity. Byron tells the whole 
story in a note in his diary: “ I awoke one morning and found myself famous.” 
In the four following years he wrote a number of poems, “The Giaour,” “The 
Bride of Abydos,” “The Corsair,” “Lara,” “The Siege of Corinth,” and “ Parisina.” 
His marriage to Miss Milbank resulted in a separation after a single year, and 
when his wife’s family discarded him he was no longer received In English 
society, and almost immediately went abroad. He lived, an embittered man. In 
Switzerland and In different Italian cities, a life of vice and profligacy too disgust¬ 
ing to relate. 



94 
















GEORGE GORDON BYRON. 


95 


In 1823 he took up the cause of the Greeks, then rebelling’ against their 
Turkish masters. It is usually thought of as a generous effort on behalf of human 
freedom, which should to some extent atone for the selfish wickedness of his life. 
There is reason, however, to believe that he hoped to reap a reward in being 
made king of the Greeks, and thus enabled to exult over his enemies and critics 
in England. He was seized with a fever, and died, in April, 1824, in his thirty- 
seventh year. His best known works, besides those mentioned, are “ The 
Prisoner of Chillon,” “ Manfred,” “ Mazeppa,” “ Sardanapalus,” ‘‘Cain,” and the 
unfinished long poem, “Don Juan,” in which he embodied his spirit of revolt 
against all the laws of social morality and religion. 


THE LAND OF THE EAST. 
From “The Bride of Abydos.” 


NOW ye the land where the cypress and 
myrtle 

Are emblems of deeds that are done in 
their clime, 

Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the 
turtle, 

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 

Know ye the land of the cedar and vine. 

Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever 
shine; 

Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with 
perfume, 

Wax faint o’er the gardens of Gul in her bloom ; 

Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 


And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; 

Where the tints of the earth and the hues of 
the sky, 

In color though varied, in beauty may vie, 

And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?— 

’Tis the clime of the East; ’tis the Land of the 
Sun : 

Can he smile on such deeds as his children have 
done ? 

Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers’ farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales 
which they tell. 



--o^o*- 


THE EVE OF THE BATTLE. 

From “ Childe FIarold.” 

The battle of Quatre Bras is here referred to, not that of Waterloo, which took place two days after. On the night 
previous to the action, a ball was given at Brussels by the Duchess of Richmond. 


HERE was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium’s capital had gather’d then 
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o’er fair women and 
brave men ; 

A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 

Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spake again. 
And all went merry as a marriage bell; 

But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a ris¬ 
ing knell ! 


Did ye not hear it?—No ; ’twas but the wind. 
Or the car rattling o’er the stony street; 

On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure 
meet 

To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. 

But hark !—that heavy sound breaks in once 
more. 

As if the clouds its echo would repeat; 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 

Arm ! arm ! it is—it is—the cannon’s opening roar 1 





















GEORGE GORDON BYRON. 


96 


Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush’d at the praise of their own loveliness; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts; and choking 
sighs. 

Which ne’er might be repeated : who could 
guess 

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could 
rise ! 


And there was mounting in hot haste; the 
steed. 

The mustering squadron, and the clattering 
car. 

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 

And the deep thunder, peal on ])eal, afar; 

And, near, the beat of the alarming drum 

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 

While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb, 

I Or whispering with white lips—“ The foe ! They 
come! they come!” 


THE ISLES OF GREECE. 


HE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 
Where burning Sappho loved and sung. 
Where grew the arts of war and peace. 
Where Delos rose, and PhCebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet. 

But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse. 

The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute. 

Have found the fame your shores refuse; 

Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo farther west 
Than your sires’ “ Islands of the Blest.” 

The mountains look on Marathon— 

And Marathon looks on the sea ; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; 

For standing on the Persians’ grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below. 

And men in nations;—all were his ! 

He counted them at break of day— 

And when the sun set, where were they? 

And where are they ? and where art thou, 

My country? On thy voiceless shore 
The heroic lay is tuneless now— 

The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine. 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

’Tis something, in the dearth of fame. 

Though linked among a fettered race. 

To feel at least a patriot’s shame. 

Even as I sing, suffuse my face; 



For what is left the poet here? 

For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear. 

Must we but weep o’er days more blest ? 

Must we but blush ?—Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 

Of the three hundred grant but three. 

To make a new Thermopylae ! 

What, silent still? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ;—the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent’s fall. 

And answer, “ Let one living head. 
But one arise,—we come, we come !” 
’Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain—in vain ; strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cu]) with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 

And shed the blood of Scio’s vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call— 

How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 
Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave— 
Think ye he meant them for a slave? 


Trust not for freedom to the Franks— 
They have a king who buys and sells; 
In native swords, and native ranks. 

The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 
Would break your shield, however broad. 










GEORGE GORDON BYRON. 


97 


DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 


HE Assyrian came down like the wolf on 
the fold, 

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple 
and gold ; 

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the 
sea 

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 

That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath 
blown. 

That host on the morrow lay wither’d and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the 
blast. 

And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d ; 

And the eyesof thesleepers wax’d deadly and chill. 

And their hearts but once heaved, and forever 
grew still! 


And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 

But through it there roll’d not the breath of his 
pride: 

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the 
turf. 

And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 

With the dew on his brow and the rust on his 
mail; 

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. 

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. 

And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the 
sword. 

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the 
Lord! 



■• 0 ^ 0 *- 


APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 
From “ Childe Harold.” 


HERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods. 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes. 

By the deep sea, and music in its roar; 

I love not man the less, but nature more. 

From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before. 

To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne’er express, yet can not all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin—his control 
Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own. 

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,— 
Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin’d, and un¬ 
known. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save 
thee :— 

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are 
they ? 

Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 

7 


Has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou ; 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves’ play. 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow: 
Such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s 
form 

Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. 

Calm or convulsed,—in breeze, or gale, or 
storm. 

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sub¬ 
lime,— 

The image of Eternity,—the throne 
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, 
alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wanton’d with thy breakers,—they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror, ’twas a pleasing fear; 

For I was, as it were, a child of thee. 

And trusted to thy billows far and near. 

And laid my hand upon thy mane,—as I do here. 














SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 

POET, PHILOSOPHER, CRITIC, AND THEOLOGIAN. 

OLERIDGE was one of the strangest men who have made their 
mark in literature. Carlyle has described him in these words: 
“ Brow and head were round and of massive weight, but the face 
was flabby and irresolute ; his deep eyes of light hazel were as 
full of sorrow as inspiration ; the whole figure and air, good and 
amiable otherwise, might be called flabby and irresolute, heavy 
laden, highly aspired, and full of much suffering and meaning.” 

Coleridge could read the Bible at three years ; at six he delighted in “ Robin¬ 
son Crusoe” and the “Arabian Nights.” He was entered as a charity pupil at 
Christ’s Hospital, London, and his later education was obtained at Cambridge. 
Einding himself slightly in debt, he left the University and enlisted in the dragoons 
under an assumed name; but after a few months’ service his friends obtained his 
discharge. With Southey he planned an ideal republic, to be located on the Sus¬ 
quehanna, and to be called “The Pantisocracy ” ; but as not one of the directors 
had money sufficient to transport him to America, they abandoned their Utopian 
project. 

He married a Miss Ericker, a sister to Mrs. Southey, and for a time lived in 
the neighborhood of Wordsworth, near Grasmere. Here he wrote most of his best 
poetry, including “The Ode to the Departing Year,” “The Ancient Mariner,” and 
“ Christabel.” Coleridge was at this time a Unitarian in religion, and used to 
preach without compensation for the congregations of that faith. Receiving an 
annuity of one hundred and fifty pounds from wealthy admirers, he was enabled to 
travel in Germany. On his return he issued a periodical called The Fi'iend, 
which, however, endured for less than a year. Some years before he had begun 
the use of opium to allay his sufferings from neuralgia, and he had now come 
completely under the dominion of the drug, so that when he tried to lecture in 
Bristol he was unable to keep his engagement. So complete was his failure that 

98 



















I'll 


1 


RS 

M 

Wm 








bEsna^ 



ftWM^ 




He Can Not Chuse but Hear 


99 
























































































































































































































































































































lOO 


SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 


he at last placed himself under the care of a physician in a suburb of London, 
where he passed in retirement the remaining nineteen years of his life. He had 
some years before abandoned his wife and three children to the care of Southey. 

The opium habit appears to have been overcome, and in his later years he 
wrote much prose, including the “Lay Sermons,” “ Biographia Literaria,” and 
“ Aids to Reflection.” The house of Dr. Gillman became a ereat resort of culti- 
vated people, who delighted in the brilliant talk of Coleridge. He was always so 
delightful a talker that in his youthful days. Lamb tells us, his landlord was ready 
to give him free entertainment because his conversation attracted so many 
customers. His manner was always animated and sometimes violent; as Words¬ 
worth says : 

“ His limbs would toss about him with delight 
Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy.” 

The literary character of Coleridge has been said to resemble some vast 
unfinished palace. His mind was dreamy. No man probably ever thought more 
or more intensely ; but few of his works are really worthy of his genius. 







THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


^T IS an ancient Mariner, 

And he stoppeth one of three. 

“ By thy long beard and glittering eye, 
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me? 

“The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide 
And I am next of kin ; 

The guests are met, the feast is set: 

May’st hear the merry din.” 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 

“There was a ship,” quoth he. 


“Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon ! ” 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye— 
The Wedding-Guest stood still. 

And listens like a three years’ child : 

The Mariner hath his will. 

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 

He can not chuse but hear; 

And thus spake on that ancient man. 

The bright-eyed Mariner. 




THE PHANTOM SHIP. 
From “The Ancient Mariner.” 


HERE passed a weary time. Each throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye. 

A weary time 1 a weary time ! 

How glazed each weary eye. 

When, looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky ! 


At first it seerned a little speck. 
And then it seemed a mist; 


It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist I 
And still it neared and neared : 

As if it dodged a water-sprite. 

It plunged and tacked and veered. 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
We could nor laugh nor wail; 










A Si’KCK, A Mist, a Shatk, I Wist! 


loi 



































































































































































































102 


SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 


Through utter drought all dumb vve stood ! 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

And cried, A sail, a sail ! 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
Agape they heard me call: 

Gramercy! they for joy did grin. 

And all at once their breath drew in. 

As they were drinking all. 

See! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! 
Hither to work us weal; 

Without a breeze, without a tide, 

She steadies with upright keel! 

The western wave was all a-flame. 

The day was well nigh done ! 

Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad bright Sun ; 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 
Betwixt us and the Sun. 

And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven’s Mother send us grace !) 

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. 

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and nears ! 

Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
Like restless gossameres ? 


Are those her ribs through which the Sun 
Did peer, as through a grate ? 

And is that Woman all her crew? 

Is that a Death? and are there two? 

Is Death that Woman’s mate? 

Her lips were red, her looks were free. 

Her locks were yellow' as gold : 

Her skin was as white as leprosy. 

The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 

Who thicks man’s blood with cold. 

The naked hulk alongside came. 

And the twain were casting dice ; 

“ The game is done ! I’ve won, I’ve won ! ” 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out: 

At one stride comes the dark ; 

With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea. 

Off shot the specter-bark. 

We listened and looked sideways up ! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 

My life-blood seemed to sip ! 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white 
From the sails the dew did drip— 

Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned Moon, with one bright star. 

Within the nether tip. 


-- 


THE ADIEU OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 


ORTHWITH this frame of mine was 
wrenched 

With a woeful agony 
Which forced me to begin my tale. 

And then it left me free. 


But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bridemaids singing are : 
And hark ! the little vesper-bell. 
Which biddeth me to prayer. 


“ Since then, at an uncertain hour. 
That agony returns; 

And till my ghostly tale is told, 
This heart within me burns. 


“ O wedding guest! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea: 

So lonely ’twas that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 


“I pass, like night, from land to land, 

I have strange power of speech ; 

That moment that his face I see, 

I know the man that must hear me: 

To him my tale I teach. 

“ What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
The wedding guests are there. 


“O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
’Tis sweeter far to me. 

To walk together to the kirk. 

With a goodly company ! 

“To walk together to the kirk 
And all together pray. 









10 


J 


Thi? Mariner 


IS Gone 





















































































































































































104 


SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 


While each to his great Father bends, 
Old men, and babes, and loving friends 
And youths and maidens gay ! 

“ Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
To thee, thou wedding guest ! 

He prayeth well who loveth well 
Both man, and bird, and beast. 

“He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things, both great and small; 


For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all.”—• 

The mariner, whose eye is bright, 

Whose beard with age is hoar. 

Is gone : and now the wedding guest 
Turned from the bridegroom’s door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn : 

A sadder and a wiser man 
He rose the morrow morn. 


-. 0 ^ 0 .- 


A CALM ON THE EQUATOR. 
From “The Ancient Mariner.” 


’HE fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
The furrow followed free ; 

We were the first that ever burst 
Into that silent sea. 


Down dropped the breeze, the sails dropped down, 
’Twas sad as sad could be ; 

And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea ! 


All in a hot and copper sky. 

The bloody Sun at noon. 

Right up above the mast did stand. 
No bigger than the Moon. 

Day after day, day after day. 

We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 


As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water, everywhere. 

And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water, water, everywhere. 

Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot—O Christ! 
That ever this should be ! 

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night; 

The water, like a witch’s oils. 

Burnt green, and blue, and white. 











THOMAS HOOD. 



HUMORIST AND POET. 

LTHOUGH Thomas Hood is chiefly remembered by his three 
poems, “ The Song of the Shirt,” “ The Bridge of Sighs,” and 
“ Eugene Aram,” he was one of the most copious writers of his 
time. He was apprenticed in his youth to a wood-engraver, and 
had some success as a comic draughtsman. He began very early 
to write verses for periodicals, and, in 1822, became assistant 
editor of The London Magazme He was now thrown into the 
company of a most brilliant circle of literary men, including DeOuincey, Hazlitt, 
and Lamb. He married in 1824, and, with the aid of his brother-in-law, published a 
small volume of “ Odes and Addresses to Great People.” A short time afterward 
he wrote a series of magazine articles called “Whims and Oddities,” illustrated by 
himself, and soon became a very popular writer. In 1830 Hood began the publi¬ 
cation of the Comic Aniinah which continued for eleven years. The failure of a 
business house with which he was connected involved him in great financial diffi¬ 
culty, and, refusing to take advantage of legal bankruptcy, he resolved, in order to 
live with greater economy, to remove to Coblenz in Germany, and, like Sir Walter 
Scott, pay his indebtedness by the work of his pen. He resided abroad for five 
years, returning to London in 1840, where he was editor of the New Monthly 
for two or three years. A pension was granted him in 1844, but he lived to enjoy 
it only until the following year. Hood has been regarded too exclusively as a 
humorist. In his best poems the element of humor is entirely wanting, but in most 
of his work there is a wonderful blending of humor and pathos. “ He tempts rnen to 
laugh, and then leads them to pity and relieve.” Though his wit was caustic, it was 
ne\rer coarse, and no single suggestion of impurity can be found in any of his writings. 


THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 


ITH fingers weary and worn. 

With eyelids heavy and red, 

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread— 

Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 

And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch. 
She sang the “ Song of the Shirt! 


“ Work ! work ! work ! 

While the cock is crowing aloof! 
And work—work—work ! 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It’s oh! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save. 
If THIS is Christian work ! 



























io6 


THOMAS HOOD. 


“ Work—work—work ! 

Till the brain begins to swim; 
Work—work—work ! 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 

Till over the buttons 1 fall asleep. 
And sew them on in my dream i 


‘‘ But why do I talk of death. 

That phantom of grisly bone ? 

I hardly fear his terrible shape. 

It seems so like my own— 

It seems so like my own, 

Because of the fast I keep : 

Oh God ! that bread should be so dear, 
And flesh and blood so cheap ! 



“Oh God! that bread should be so dear. 
And flesh and blood so cheap! ” 


Oh ! men with sisters dear ! 

Oh ! men with mothers and wives ! 
It is not linen you’re wearing out, 

But human creatures’ lives ! 

Stitch—stitch—stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 
A SHROUD as well as a shirt ! 


“ ^^'ork—work—work ! 

My labor never flags ; 

And what are its wages? A bed of straw, 
A crust of bread—and rags : 

A shatter’d roof—and this naked floor— 
A table—a broken chair— 

And a wall so blank my shadow I thank 
For sometimes falling there ! 













THOMAS HOOD. 


Work—work—work ! 

From weary chime to chime ; 

Work—work—work ! 

As prisoners work for crime ! 

Band, and gusset, and seam. 

Seam, and gusset, and band. 

Till the heart is sick and the brain benumb’d, 
As well as the weary hand ! 

Work—work—work ! 

In the dull December light: 

And work—work—work ! 

When the weather is warm and bright: 
While underneath the eaves 
The brooding swallows cling. 

As if to show me their sunny backs. 

And twit me with the spring. 

Oh ! but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet ; 

With the sky above my head. 

And the grass beneath my feet: 


For only one short hour 
To feel as I used to feel, 

Before I knew the woes of want. 

And the walk that costs a meal ! 

“ Oh ! but for one short hour! 

A respite, however brief ! 

No blessed leisure for love or hope. 

But only time for grief! 

A little weeping would ease my heart,— 
But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 
Hinders needle and thread ! ” 

With fingers weary and worn. 

With eyelids heavy and red, 

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 

Plying her needle and thread ; 

Stitch—stitch—stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt; 

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch. 
Would that its tone could reach the rich 
She sung this “ Song of the Shirt! ” 


••o^o-- 


THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

“ Drown’d! Drown’d!” —Hamlet. 


XE more unfortunate. 
Weary of breath. 
Rashly importunate. 
Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care ; 
Fashion’d so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements ; 
While the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing; 
Take her up instantly. 
Loving, not loathing.— 

Touch her not scornfully ; 
Think of her mournfully. 
Gently and humanly; 

Not of the stains of her. 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 
Rash and tmdutiful: 


Past all dishonor. 

Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers. 

One of Eve’s family,— 

Wipe those poor lips of hers. 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb. 

Her fair auburn tresses ; 
Whilst wonderment guesses. 
Where was her home ? 

AVho was her father ? 

Who was her mother ? 

Had she a sister ? 

Had she a brother ? 

Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 
Yet, than all other? 

Alas ! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun ! 





io8 


THOMAS HOOD. 


Oh ! it was pitiful! 

Near a whole city full, 
Home had she none. 

Sisterly, brotherly. 
Fatherly, motherly. 
Feelings had changed : 
Love, by harsh evidence. 


The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver; 
But not the dark arch. 

Or the black flowing river: 
Mad from life’s history. 

Glad to death’s mystery. 

Swift to be hurl’d— 
Anywhere, anywhere. 

Out of the world ! 



In she plunged boldly, 

No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran,— 

Over the brink of it. 

Picture it, think of it. 
Dissolute Man ! 

Lave in it, drink of it, 

Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly. 

Lift her with care ; 

Fashion’d so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly. 

Decently,—kindly,— 
Smooth, and compose them; 
And her eyes close them, 
Staring so blindly ! 

Dreadfully staring 
Thro’ muddy impurity. 

As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fix’d on futurity. 


“ Take her up tenderly; 

Lift her with care.” 

Thrown from its eminence j 
Even God’s providence 
Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river. 

With many a light 

From window and casement, 

From garret to basement, 

She stood, with amazement. 
Houseless by night. 


Perishing gloomily, 

Spurr’d by contumely, 

Cold inhumanity. 

Burning insanity. 

Into her rest,— 

Cross her hands humbly, 

As if praying dumbly. 

Over her breast! 

Owning her weakness. 

Her evil behavior. 

And leaving, with meekness. 
Her sins to her Saviour. 








THOMAS MOORE. 

FAMOUS WRITER OF IRISH SONGS. 

M MOORE, the Irish poet, was one of the most popular men 
of his time. He graduated from the Dublin University, and had 
filled a post in the West Indies and traveled extensively before, 
in i8ii, he married Miss Dyke, an actress of many attractions 
and high character. He lived for some years in Paris, but his 
principal residence was in London. He was famous as a bril¬ 
liant talker, a good singer, and his poems were very widely 
read. His early works have been almost forgotten, but his “Irish Songs and 
Melodies” retain their popularity, and some of them are veritable gems of 
lyric poetry. His longest poem, “ Lalla Rookh,” an Oriental romance, has been 
said to be more Eastern than the East itself. His thought and feeling were 
of a somewhat superficial character, and it was in elegance of verse and in airy 
wit that he excelled. His prose writings were of importance, and comprised 
several biographies, a history of Ireland, and one or two romances. He was 
intrusted with Byron’s autobiography, but yielded to the pressure of that poet’s 
friends and allowed it to be destroyed. He had already received two thousand 
guineas for the manuscript, and this sum he repaid to the prospective publishers, 
and would not accept reimbursement from Byron’s family. In his later years his 
faculties decayed, and he died, in 1852, at the age of seventy-three. 

-- 



COME. YE DISCONSOLATE. 


OME, ye disconsolate, where’er you lan¬ 
guish. 

Come, at the shrine of God fervently 
kneel; 

Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your 
anguish; 

Earth has no sorrow that Heaven can not heal. 

Joy of the desolate. Light of the straying, 

Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure. 


Here speaks the Comforter, in God’s name say¬ 
ing,— 

“Earth has no sorrow that Heaven can not 
cure.’’ 

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us. 

What charm for aching hearts he can reveal. 
Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us,— 
“Earth has no sorrow that God can not 
heal.’’ 



109 






















I lO 


THOMAS MOORE. 


PARADISE AND THE PERI. 
From “ Lalla Rookh.” 


NE morn a Peri at the gate 
Of Eden stood, disconsolate; 

And as she listened to the Springs 
Of Life within, like music flowing. 

And caught the light upon her wings 
Through the half-open portal glowing, 

She wept to think her recreant race 
Should e’er have lost that glorious place ! 

“ How happy,” exclaimed this child of air, 

“ Are the holy Spirits who wander there, 

’Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall; 
Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea. 
And the stars themselves have flowers for me. 
One blossom of Heaven outblooms them all! 
Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere, 
With its plane-tree isle reflected clear. 

And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall; 
Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, 
And the golden floods that thitherward stray. 
Yet—O ! ’tis only the Blest can say 

How the waters of Heaven outshine them 
all ! 


“ Go, wing thy flight from star to star. 

From world to luminous world, as far 
As the universe spreads its flaming wall; 
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres. 
And multiply each through endless years. 
One minute of Heaven is worth them all 
The glorious Angel, who was keeping 
The gates of Light, beheld her weejung ! 
And, as he nearer drew and listened 
To her sad song, a tear-drop glistened 
Within his eyelids, like the spray 
From Eden’s fountain, when it lies 
On the blue flower, which—Bramins say— 
Blooms nowhere but in Paradise ! 

“ Nymph of a fair but erring line!” 

Gently he said—“ One hope is thine, 

’Tis written in the Book of Fate, 

The Peri yet may be forgiven 
Who britigs to this Eternal gate 

The Gift that is most dear to Heaveri ! 
Go seek it, and redeem thy sin— 

’Tis sweet to let the Pardoned in I ” 



—-.O'^O.- 


FORGET NOT 

ORGET not the field where they perished. 
The truest, the last of the brave. 

All gone—and the bright hope we cher¬ 
ished 

Gone with them, and quenched in their grave I 

O, could we from death but recover 
Those hearts as they bounded before. 

In the face of high Heaven to fight over 
That combat for freedom once more; 

Could the chain for an instant be riven 
Which Tyranny flung round us then. 


THE FIELD. 

No, ’tis not in Man, nor in Heaven, 

I To let Tyranny bind it again I 

But ’tis past—and, though blazoned in story 
The name of our victor may be. 

Accurst is the march of that glory 

Which treads o’er the hearts of the free. 

Far dearer the grave or the prison. 

Illumed by one patriot name. 

Than the trophies of all, who have risen 
On Liberty’s ruins to fame. 



-.o^o*" 


THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. 


HIS world is all a fleeting show. 

For man’s illusion given ; 

The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe, 
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow,— 
There’s nothing true but Heaven I 


And false the light on Glory’s plume. 

As fading hues of even ; 

And Love, and Hope, and Beauty’s bloom 


Are blossoms gather’d for the tomb,— 
There’s nothing bright but Heaven ! 


Poor wanderers of a stormy day. 

From wave to wave we’re driven ; 
And Fancy’s flash, and Reason’s ray. 
Serve but to light the troubled way,— 
There’s nothing calm but Heaven I 













THOMAS MOORE. 


Ill 


’TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 


i|IS THE last rose of summer, 

Left blooming alone; 

All her lovely companions 
Are faded and gone; 

No flower of her kindred, 

No rosebud is nigh, 

To reflect back her blushes. 

Or give sigh for sigh ! 

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one ! 

To pine on the stem ; 

Since the lovely are sleeping. 

Go, sleep thou with them. 


Thus kindly I scatter 
Thy leaves o’er the bed, 
Where thy mates of the garden 
Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may I follow. 

When friendships decay. 

And from Love’s shining circle 
The gems drop away ! 

AVhen true hearts lie wither’d. 
And fond ones are flown. 

Oh ! who would inhabit 
This bleak world alone ? 


-. 0 ^ 0 -- 


THOSE EVENING BELLS. 


n HOSE evening bells ! those evening bells ! 
How many a tale their music tells, 

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
When last I heard their soothing chime ! 

Those joyous hours are passed away ! 

And many a heart, that then was gay. 


Within the tomb now darkly dwells. 

And hears no more those evening bells ! 

And so ’twill be when I am gone; 

That tuneful peal will still ring on. 

While other bards shall walk these dells. 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells! 




AN IDEAL HONEYMOON. 


HE moon — the moon, so silver and 
cold— 

Her fickle temper has oft been told. 

Now shady, now bright and sunny ; 

But, of all the lunar things that change. 

The one that shows most fickle and strange 
And takes the most eccentric range. 

Is the moon—so-called—of honey ! 

To some a full grown orb revealed. 

As big and as round as Norval’s shield, 

And as bright as a burner Bude-lighted ; 

To others as dull, and dingy, and damp 
As any oleaginous lamp. 

Of the regular old jDarochial stamp. 

In a London fog benighted. 

To the loving, a bright and constant sphere. 
That makes earth’s commonest things appear 
All poetic, romantic, and tender ; 

Hanging with jewels a cabbage-stump. 

And investing a common post or a pump, 

A currant-bush or gooseberry-clump. 

With a halo of dreamlike splendor. 


For all is bright, and beauteous, and clear. 

And the meanest thing most precious and dear 
When the magic of love is present: 

Love that lends a sweetness and grace 
To the humblest spot and the plainest face ; 
That turns Wilderness Row into Paradise Place, 
And Garlic Hill to Mount Pleasant. 

Love that sweetens sugarless tea. 

And makes contentment and joy agree 
With the coarsest boarding and bedding ; 
Love, that no golden ties can attach. 

But nestles under the humblest thatch. 

And will fly away from an emperor’s match 
To dance at a penny wedding ! 

O, happy, happy, thrice happy state. 

When such a bright planet governs the fate 
Of a pair of united lovers ! 

’Tis theirs in spite of the serpent’s hiss. 

To enjoy the pure primeval kiss 
With as much of the old original bliss 
x-\s mortality ever recovers. 


















Etovyc c »;) & c c ygss_ 

aiiiniimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiLiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 


WILLIAM MA'IRDSWORTH. 

THE FOUNDER OF THE LAKE SCHOOL OF POETRY. 

T was the mission of Wordsworth to bring back the art of poeti*}’ to 
nature. He contended that the ordinary affairs of daily life are 
fit subjects for poeti*)', and that the language of the poet should be 
that really used by men. He thus violated all the established rules 
of poetic diction, encountered the most hostile criticism, and drew 
upon himself and those with whom he was associated showers of 
ridicule. It was only after fifty years that he was recognized as the 
first poet of his age. There can be no doubt that he erred upon the side of 
simplicity, descending at times even to triviality, and so justified the ridicule with 
which the first critics of his age received his poems. On the other hand, there are 
golden veins of real poetry running throughout every thing he has written, and in 
some places, as in his “ Ode on Immortality,” he rises to the perfection of human 
utterance. 

His parents were of the middle class, and he was intended for the church, but 
as he came near the time when he should have definitely prepared himself for the 
ministry, he found himself more and more inclined to devote his life to poetry. In 
this resolution he persevered, and the measure of his devotion may be judged 
from the fact that for the sake of his chosen vocation he resolutely faced a life of 
poverty, and contrived to live with his sister for about eight years upon the income 
of a legacy of nine hundred pounds left him by a friend of his youth. A debt of 
some three thousand pounds due his father being finally paid, the poet was placed 
beyond pecuniary’ difiiculty. 

In 1798 Wordsworth and his sister made a tour of Germany in company^ with 
Coleridge. Returning, he took up his residence at Grasmere, in the Lake region, 
and afterward at Ryeial Mount, which was his home during the remainder of his 
uneventful life. Coleridge and Southey also made their home in the Lake 
region, and thus the three came to be known, somewhat in derision, as the “ Lake 
Poets.” 

Wordsworth’s most extensive work, “The Excursion,” appeared in 1814. It 
was intended to be only a part of an extended poem to be entitled “The Recluse,” 
having for its principal subject “The Sensations and Opinions of a Poet Living in 
Retirement.” It was to be composed of three parts: “The Prelude,” not published 
until 1850, “The Excursion.” and a third which was never written. “The E.xcur- 

112 

































































WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 


II3 



sion was received by the critics with the greatest hostility. “This will never do,’ 
wrote Jeffrey, in the Edinburgh Review, “ it is longer, weaker, and tamer than any of 
Mr. Wordsworth’s other selections, with less boldness of originality and less even 
of that extreme simplicity and lowliness of tone which wavered so prettily in the 
‘Lyrical Ballads between silliness and pathos.” But others have not agreed with 
Jeffrey, and he himself was led in later years to modify his views. 

Wordsworth filled for many years the office of distributor of stamps for West¬ 
moreland, and in 1843 succeeded Southey as poet laureate. His domestic life 
was unclouded and happy. He had received a pension of three hundred pounds a 
year, and, resigning his office of stamp distributor to his son, he lived in the quiet 
seclusion of the beautiful region in which he had fixed his home until his death 
in 1850. 

His best-known 
poems are “The E.x- 
cursion,” “ Heart- 
leap Well,” the “Ode 
on Immortality,” 

“ She Was a Phan¬ 
tom of Delight,” and 
“We are Seven.” 

Those which have 
been most ridiculed 
are “ Peter Bell,” 

“The Idiot Boy,” 

“Alice Fell,” and 
“The Blind High¬ 
land Boy.” 

Wordsworth 
brought back into 
popularity the son¬ 
net, which since 
Milton’s day had 
fallen out of English ’ 


The Tomb of Wordsworth. 


poetry. His fame 

seems to grow' with the lapse of time, and his place among famous poets is a high 
one. 




OUR IMMORTALITY. 

Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood. 


UR birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; 
The soul that rises with us, our life’s Star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting. 

And cometh from afar : 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

8 


And not in utter nakedness, 

But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
From God, who is our home: 

Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
















WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 


II4 

Upon the growing boy, 

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows 
He sees it in his joy ; 

The youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is Nature’s priest, 

And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 

At length the man perceives it die away, 

And fade into the light of common day. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. 
And even with something of a mother’s mind. 
And no unworthy aim. 

The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate man. 
Forget the glories he hath known. 

And that imperial palace whence he came. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
Thy soul’s immensity; 

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind. 

That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep. 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind,— 

Mighty prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest. 

Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 

In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
Thou, over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o’er a slave, 

A presence which is not to be put by; 

Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height. 
Why with such earnest pains doth thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 

Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight. 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight. 

Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 


TO A S 

P with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 

For thy song. Lark, is strong ; 

Up with me, up with me into the 
clouds ! 

Singing, singing. 

With clouds and sky about thee ringing. 

Lift me, guide me till I find 
That spot which seems so to thy mind! 

I have walked through wildernesses dreary, 

And to-day my heart is weary ; 


O joy that in our embers 
Is something that doth live. 

That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 

The thought of our past years in me doth breed 

Perpetual benediction : not indeed 

For that which is most worthy to be blest; 

Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest. 

With new-fledged hopes still fluttering in his 
breast:— 

Not for these I raise 

The song of thanks and praise; 

But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 

Fallings from us, vanishings ; 

Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized. 

High instincts before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised ; 

But for those first affections 
Those shadowy recollections. 

Which, be they what they may. 

Are yet the fountain light of all our day. 

Are yet a master light of all our seeing; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence : truths that wake 
To perish never ; 

Which neither listlessnefs, nor mad endeavor. 

Nor man nor boy. 

Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 

Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather 
Though inland far we be. 

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither. 

Can in a moment travel thither. 

And see the children sport upon the shore. 

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 


t^LARK. 

Had I now the wings of a Faery, 

Up to thee would I fly. 

There’s madness about thee, and joy divine 
In that song of thine ; 

Lift me, guide me high and high 
To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 

Joyous as morning. 

Thou art laughing and scorning ; 

Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest. 
And, though little troubled with sloth. 










WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 


II5 


Drunken Lark ! thou wouldst be loath 
To be such a Traveler as I. 

Happy, happy Liver, 

With a soul as strong as a mountain River 
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 
Joy and jollity be with us both ! 


Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven, 

Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind ; 
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, 

As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 

I, with my fate contented, will plod on. 

And hope for higher raptures, when Life’s day is 
done. 


-. 0 ^ 0 .- 


ODE TO 

TERN Daughter of the Voice of God ! 

O Duty ! if that name thou love 
Who art a Light to guide, a Rod 
To check the erring, and reprove ; 

Thou, who art victory and law 
WTen empty terrors overawe ; 

From vain temptations dost set free. 

And calm’st the weary strife of frail humanity ! 


There are who ask not if Thine eye 
Be on them—who, in love and truth. 

Where no misgiving is, rely 

Upon the genial sense of youth : 

Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot; 

Who do Thy work, and know it not: 

Long may the kindly impulse last! 

But Thou, if they should totter, teach them to 
stand fast! 


DUTY. 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead’s most benignant grace; 

Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon Thy face ; 

Flowers laugh before Thee on their beds; 

And Fragrance in Thy footing treads ; 

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 

And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are 
fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 

I call Thee : I myself commend 
Unto Thy guidance from this hour : 

Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 

Give unto me, made lowly wise. 

The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 

The confidence of reason give. 

And in the light of truth Thy bondman let me 
live ! 



-.0^0- 


TO HIS 

HE was a phantom of delight 
I When first she gleamed upon my sight 
A lovely Apparition, sent 
To be a moment’s ornament. 

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair. 

Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair. 

But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 

A dancing Shade, an Image gay. 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 


I saw her, upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ; 

Her household motions light and free. 
And steps of virgin-liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 


WIFE. 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A creature not too bright and good 
For human nature’s daily food. 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 


And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine ; 

A being breathing thoughtful breath. 

A traveller between life and death ; 

The reason firm, the temperate will. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
A perfect Woman, nobly planned. 

To warn, to comfort, and command; 

And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of angelic light. 









ALFRED TENNYSON. 

THE FIRST OF MODERN POETS. 


THER poets have written for particular classes ; Browning for the 
philosophers, Wordsworth for those whose intense love of nature 
can see beauty and needed truth in the commonest and simplest 
objects and events. But Tennyson has written for every one who 
loves the beautiful in nature or the noble in action, or whose heart 
can be moved by the story of great deeds set to the stirring music 
of perfect verse. Tennyson was the son of an English clergy¬ 
man, and was born in Somersby, Lincolnshire, August 6, 1809. The father was 
distinguished by a love of learning, and by his devotion to music, painting, and 
literature. These qualities, as well as his fondness for out-door living, were inher¬ 
ited by his children, and two of Alfred’s brothers wrote poetry ; indeed, at one time 
his brother Charles gave greater promise of excelling than did he. Tennyson was 
educated in Trinity College, Cambridge, where his poem, “ Timbuctoo,” gained the 
Chancellor’s medal. He did not complete his college ooiirse, and very little is known 
of the details of his life. He always exhibited an intense dislike for publicity in any 
form, which effectually kept people away. He once wrote to a friend that he 
“ thanked God Almighty with his whole heart and soul that he knew nothing, and that 
the world knew nothing, of Shakespeare but his writings, and that he knew nothing 
of Jane Austen, and that there were nodetters preserved either of Shakespeare or 
of Jane Austen.” 

Tennyson’s earliest published volume was a little book, the joint work of his 
brother Charles and himself, entitled “ Poems by Two Brothers.” In 1830 
appeared another volume, “ Poems, Chiefly Lyrical,” which contained the promise 
of much of his best work. 

The first reference to the legends of King Arthur, which furnished the subject 
of so much of his later work, occurs in the volume published in 1832. Among 
these poems were “The Lady of Shalott,” and “The Miller’s Daughter,” the chief 
beauty of which lay in the songs included in it. one of which, the most charming, isr 

Love that hath us in a net. 

Can he pass and we forget ? 

Many suns arise and set. 

Many a chance the years beget. 

Love the gift is Love the debt. 

Even so. 

116 






















ALFRED TENNYSON. 


II7 


Love is hurt with jar and fret. 

Love is made a vain regret. 

Eyes with idle tears are wet. 

Idle habit links us yet. 

What is love ? for we forget; 

Ah, no ! no ! 

Tennyson’s two volumes, “ English Idyls and Other Poems,” appeared in 1842, 
and made him famous. He treated the question of the position of woman in society 
in “The Princess: A Medley,” a poem containing many noble passages, but which 
has been chiefly valued for the songs it contains. His best known work, “ In 
Memoriam,” is an elaborate elegy for his early friend, Arthur Henry Hallam, a 
young man of marked literary ability, who was betrothed to Tennyson’s sister, and 
who died in 1833. The book is composed of one hundred and twenty-nine short 
poems, some of which are of surpassing beauty. It appeared in 1850, and seven 
years later it was followed by “ Maud, and Other Poems,” which, while admired by 
many, and containing much very noble verse, was, for some reason, a disappoint¬ 
ment to the lovers of Tennyson. In 1859 he published the first of the “Idyls of 
the King,” which were followed later by a number of others, all relating to the 
Arthurian myth. From this time every year-or two added something to his list of 
poems which, while of unequal merit, well sustained the reputation of the poet. 

In 1850 Tennyson had succeeded Wordsworth as poet laureate, and he 
enjoyed for many years a pension of two hundred pounds a year, granted him 
when he was comparatively unknown. Mr. Milnes, who was expected to secure 
this pension, was one day visiting Carlyle, who asked him when it would be done. 
“My dear Carlyle,” replied Milnes, “the thing is not so easy as you suppose. 
What will my constituents say, if I do get a pension for Tennyson ? They know 
nothing about him or his poetry, and they will probably think he is some poor 
relation of my own, and that the whole affair is a job.” 

“Richard Milnes,” answered Carlyle, “on the Day of Judgment, when the 
Lord asks you why you did n’t get that pension for Alfred Tennyson, it will not do 
to lay the blame on your constituents ; it is you that will be damned.” Peel was 
prime minister, and asked advice as to whether he should give such a pension to 
Tennyson or to Sheridan Knowles, saying, “I don’t know either of them.” 
“ What! ” said Milnes. “ Have you never seen the name of Knowles on a play¬ 
bill ? ” “No.” “And never read one poem of Tennyson’s ? ” “No.” Milnes 

sent him “Locksley Hall” and “Ulysses,” and advised him to give the pension 
to Knowles, if it were charity, but if it were for the promotion of English litera¬ 
ture, to give it to Tennyson. 

Carlyle wrote to Emerson in 1844 that Tennyson was: “One of the finest 
looking men in the world. A great shock of. rough, dusty-dark hair ; bright, 
laughing, hazel eyes ; massive, aquiline face—most massive, yet most delicate ; of 
sallow-brown complexion, almost Indian-looking ; clothes cynically loose, free, and 
easy—smokes infinite tobacco. His voice is musical-metallic, fit for loud laughter 
and piercing wail, and all that may lie between; speech and speculation free and 
plenteous. I do not meet in these last decads such company over a pipe.” 


ii8 


ALFRED TENNYSON. 


Tennyson lived in and about London until his fortieth year, when he married 
Emily Sellwood, and took up his residence at Twickenham, until he removed, in 
the early fifties, to Faringford, in the Isle of Wight, where he lived for many years. 
About 1869 he purchased a place at Petersfield, Hampshire, and, afterward. Aid- 
worth House, near Haslemere, Surrey, where he continued to live until he died 
from old age, October 6, 1892. 

His physician. Sir Andrew Clark, says of his deathbed: “ In all my experience 
I have never witnessed anything more glorious. There were no artificial lights in 
the chamber, and all was in darkness save for the silvery light of the moon at its 
full. The soft beams of light fell upon the bed and played upon the features of 
the dying poet like a halo of Rembrandt.” 


SONG OF THE BROOK. 


COME from haunts of coot and hern : 

I make a sudden sally 

- And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges; 

By twenty thorps, a little town. 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go. 

But I go on forever. 

I chatter over stony ways. 

In little sharps and trebles; 

I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow. 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come and men may go. 

But I go on forever. 

I wind about, and in and out. 

With here a blossom sailing. 

And here and there a lusty trout. 

And here and there a grayling. 


And here and there a foamy flake 
Upon me, as I travel, 

With many a silvery waterbreak 
Above the golden gravel; 


And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on forever. 


I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; 

I slide by hazel covers; 

I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers. 


I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
Among my skimming swallows, 
I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 


I murmur under moon and stars 
In brambly wildernesses; 

I linger by my shingly bars ; 

I loiter round my cresses; 


And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river ; 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on forever. 








ALFRED TENNYSON. 


PRELUDE TO 

^^TRONG Son of God, immortal Love, 

AVdiom we, that have not seen thy face, 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace. 
Believing where we can not prove ; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 
Thou madest life, man and brute; 

Thou madest death ; and lo, thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust; 

Thou madest man, he knows not why; 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 

And thou hast made him : thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine. 

The highest, holiest manhood thou : 

Our wills are ours, we know not how’; 
Our \vills are ours to make them thine. 

Our little systems have their day ; 

They have their day and cease to be : 
They are but broken lights of thee. 

And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith : we can not know; 

For knowledge is of things we see; 


“IN MEMORIAM.” 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam in darkness; let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to more, 
But more of reverence in us dwell. 
That mind and soul, according well. 
May make one music as before. 

But vaster. We are fools and slight; 

\\'e mock thee, when we do not fear; 
But help thy foolish ones to bear ; 
Help thy vain world to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem’d my sin in me ; 

What seemed my worth since I began ; 
For merit lives from man to man. 

And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed. 

Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 

I trust he lives in thee, and there 
I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries. 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 

Forgive them where they fail in truth. 
And in thy wisdom make me wuse. 


-•o^o- 


RING OUT, WILD BELLS. 

“In Memoriam.” 


ING out, wild bells, to the wdld sky. 
The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
The year is dying in the night; 
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 



Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 

The faithless coldness of the time; 

Ring out, ring out, my mournful rhymes. 
But ring the fuller minstrel in. 


Ring out the old, ring in the new. 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow ; 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
For those that here we see no more; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 
Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause. 

And ancient forms of party strife; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life. 
With sweeter manners, purer laws. 


Ring out false pride in place and blood. 
The civic slander and the spite ; 

Ring in the love of truth and right. 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old. 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 
Ring in the Christ that is to be. 














120 


ALP'RED TENNYSON. 


THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 


N either side the river lie 

Long fields of barley and of rye, 

That clothe the world and meet the sky; 
And thro’ the field the road runs by 
To many-towered Camolet; 

And up and down the people go, 

Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 


Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley, 
Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly 

Down to tower’d Camelot; 



“ Out flew the web and floated wide; 

The mirror crack’d from side to side.” 

And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy. 
Listening, whispers, “ ’Tis the fairy 
Lady of Shalott.” 


There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 

She has heard a whisper say, 

A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 


She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily. 

And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 


Sometimes a troop of damsels glad. 

An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 

Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad, 
Goes by to tower’d Camelot; 
And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two ; 
She hath no royal knight and true. 

The Lady of Shalott. 


A bow-shot from her bower-eaves. 

He rode between the barley sheaves. 

The sun came dazzling through the leaves 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 
Of bold Sir Lancelot. 

A redcross knight forever kneeled 
To a lady in his shield, 

That sparkled on the yellow field. 

Beside remote Shalott. 


His broad, clear brow in sunlight glow’d; 
On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode; 
From underneath his helmet flow’d 
His coal-black curls as on he rode. 

As he rode down to Camelot. 

From the bank and from the river 
He flashed into the crystal mirror, 

“ Tirra lirra,” by the river 
Sang Sir Lancelot. 


She left the web, she left the loom. 
She made three paces thro’ the room. 
She saw the water-lily bloom. 

She saw the helmet and the plume. 
She look’d down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide; 
The mirror crack’d from side to side ; 
“ The curse is come upon me,” cried 
The Lady of Shalott. 


In the stormy east-wind straining. 

The pale yellow woods are waning. 

The broad stream in his banks complaining. 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower’d Camelot; 













ALFRED TENNYSON. 


I2I 


Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 

And round about the prow she wrote 
The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by, 

A corse between the houses high. 
Silent into Camelot. 

Out upon the wharves they came, 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame. 


And round the prow they read her name, 
The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this ? and what is here ? 

And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer: 

And they cross’d themselves for fear, 

All the knights of Camelot: 

But Lancelot mused a little space : 

He said, “ She has a lovely face : 

God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott.” 


-..O^O*- 


SWEET AND LOW. 
A Lullaby. 


H WEET and low, sweet and low. 

Wind of the western sea. 

Low, low, breathe and blow. 

Wind of the western sea ! 

Over the rolling waters go. 

Come from the dying moon, and blow. 

Blow him again to me. 

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 


Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 

Father will come to thee soon ; 

Rest, rest, on mother’s breast. 

Father will come to thee soon ; 

Father will come to his babe in the nest. 

Silver sails all out of the west 
Under the silver moon ; 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 




THE HERE AND THE HEREAFTER. 
“In Memoriam.” 


^ YET we trust that somehow good 
J Will be the final goal of ill. 

To pangs of nature, sins of will. 
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet. 
That not one life shall be destroy’d. 

Or cast as rubbish to the void. 

When Goci hath made the pile complete ; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 

That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivell’d in a fruitless fire. 

Or but subserves another’s gain. 

Behold, we know not anything, 

I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last—far off—at last to all. 

And every Winter change to Spring. 

So runs my dream : but what am I ? 

An infant crying in the night; 

An infant crying for the light. 

And with no language but a cry. 


The wish that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave. 
Derives it not from what we have 
The likest God within the soul ? 

Are God and Nature then at strife ? 

That Nature tends such evil dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems. 

So careless of the single life; 

That I considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds. 

And finding that of fifty seeds 
She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod. 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world’s altar-stairs 
That slope through darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all. 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 







122 


ALFRED TENNYSON. 


THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 
“English Idyls.”. 


ND answer made King Arthur, breathing 
hard ; 

“My end draws nigh: ’tis time that I 
were gone. 

Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight 
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.” 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose. 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 

And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 


“ An arm 

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake.” 

Remorsefully regarded through his tears. 

And would have spoken, but he found not words. 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee. 
O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, 
And rising bore him through the place of tombs. 

But as he walk’d King Arthur panted hard. 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sighed the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, “Quick, 
quick ! 

I fear it is too late, and I shall die ! ” 

But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge 


Clothed with his breath and looking, as he walk’d, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 

And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake. 

And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge. 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 

Beneath them; and descending they were ’ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms, 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream. By 
these 

Three Queens with crowns of gold ; and from 
them rose 

A cry that shivered to the tingling stars; 

And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land where no one comes. 

Or hath come, since the making of the world. 
Then murmur’d Arthur, “ Place me in the 
barge,” 

And to the barge they came. There these three 
Queens 

Put forth their hands, and took the King, and 
wept. 

But she that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 

And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his 
hands. 

And call’d him by his name, complaining loud. 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was 
white 

And colorless, and like the wither’d moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; 
And all his greaves, and cuisses dash’d with drops 
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls— 

That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne—were parched with 
dust; 

Or, clotted into points and hanging loose. 

Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his 
lips. 

So like a shatter’d column lay the King. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere: 

“ Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 

Where shall 1 hide my forehead and my eyes? 

For now I see the true old times are dead. 

When every morning brought a noble chance. 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light hath led 
The Holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 

But now the whole Round Table is dissolved. 
Which was an image of the mighty world. 

And I, the last, go forth companionless. 
















ALFRED TENNYSON. 


123 


And the days darken round me, and the years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.” 

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: 
“The old order changeth, yielding place to new. 
And God fulfils himself in many ways. 

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 

I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within himself make pure ! But thou. 

If thou shouldst never see my face again. 

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by 
prayer 

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy 
voice 

Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 

For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain. 

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and thosewho call them friend? 


For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 

But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest—if indeed I go— 

(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 

To the island-valley of Avilion; 

Where falls not hail nor rain, or any snow. 

Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies 
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawns. 
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea. 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.” 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan. 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death. 

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn. 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 


• 0 ^ 0 . 


BUGLE SONG. 
“The Princess.” 



O hark, O hear; how thin, how clear, 

And thinner, clearer, further going ! 

O sw'eet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 

Blow, let us hear, the purple glens replying; 

Blow bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 


O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They faint on hill or field or river; 

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 

And grow forever and forever. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying ; 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 
dying. 


“ The splendor falls on castle walls.” 


HE splendor falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story; 

The long light shakes across the lakes. 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying ; 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 


II 


BREAK, BREAK, 



RE.\K, break, break 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 

And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 


BREAK. 

O well for the fisherman’s boy. 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 
O well for the sailor-lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 





















124 


ALFRED TENNYSON. 


And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill; 

But O for the touch of a vanished hand 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 


Break, break, break 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 

But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me. 


-.O^O"- 


GARDEN SONG. 
“ Maud.” 


OME into the garden, Maud, 

For the black bat. Night, has flown ; 
Come into the garden, Maud, 

I am here at the gate alone, 

• And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad. 
And the musk of the roses blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves, 

And the planet of Love is on high. 

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves. 
To faint in his light and die. 

All night have the roses heard 
The flute, violin, bassoon ; 

All night hath the casement jessamine stirr’d 
To the dancer’s dancing in tune. 

Till a silence fell with the waking bird. 

And a hush with the setting moon. 


I said to the lily, “ There is but one 
With whom she has heart to be gay; 
When will the dancers leave her alone ? 

She is weary of dance and play.” 
Now half to the setting moon are gone. 
And half to the rising day; 


Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
The last wheel echoes away. 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
Come hither, the dances are done. 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls. 

Queen lily and rose in one ; 

Shine out, little head, running over with curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion flower at the gate. 

She is coming, my dove, my dear; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ! 

The red rose cries, “ She is near, she is near,” 
And the white rose weeps, “She is late;” 

The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear,” 

And the lily wLispers, “ I wait.” 

She is coming, my own, my sweet; 

Were it ever so airy a tread 

My heart would hear her and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 

My dust would hear her and beat. 

Had I lain for a century dead ; 

Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 





TEARS, IDLE TEARS. 
“The Princess.” 


S ' a lE.YRS, idle tears, I know not what they 
ra H mean: 

Tears from the depths of some divine 
despair 

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. 

In looking on the happy autumn-flelds. 

And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. 

That brings our friends up from the under-world ; 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 


Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 


Dear as remembered kisses after death. 

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign’d 
j On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 

■ Deep as first love, and wild as all regret; 

O death in Life ! the days that are no more. 
















ROBERT BROWNING. 



POETIC STUDENT OF HUMAN NATURE. 

O great poet has been less understood by his own generation 
than was Robert Browning. His earlier writings aimed at lofty 
themes, which they did not interpret so successfully as to be 
comprehended by the reading public. His “ Sordelo ” has been 
likened to a house built by a young architect who forgot that 
a staircase was necessary. The author, a boy little beyond 
twenty, essayed a high thing, in which he partially failed, and 
for more than forty years the British public remembered it to his discredit, and 
seemed never weary of ridiculing and abusing it. Even in this, however, was 
the promise of Browning’s best work. 

He was the son of a clerk in the Bank of England, but had the entire 
sympathy and support of his father in his choice of literature as a profession. 
H is life is almost without incident, and its details are not much known. 

He lived from the time of his marriage, in 1846, principally abroad. After the 
death of Mrs. Browning, in 1861, he again lived in London in the winter; but died 
at Venice in 1889. The subtlety of Browning’s poetry, the depth of meaning 
which is buried sometimes under the most trifling narrative, and sometimes so 
deeply hidden as to dismay any but the most determined student, has always pre¬ 
vented him from becoming a popular poet. For those, however, who will bestow 
upon them the necessary thought and study, his poems yield the richest returns. 
His best-known works are “Paracelsus,” “Bells and Pomegranates,” “The Blot 
on the ’Scutcheon,” “ Pippa Passes,” “ Men and Women,” and “ The Ring and the 
Book.” Many of his shorter poems are more popular, and among these “The 
Ride from Ghent to Aix ” is a masterpiece in action and intensity. 


THE RIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX. 


SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he : 
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped 
all three; 

Good speed !’’ cried the watch, as the gate-bolts 
undrew; 

Speed ! “echoed the wall to us galloping through; 


Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 
And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other ; we kept the great ])ace— 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing 
our place; 


125 
































ROBERT BROWNING. 


I 26 

I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique 
right, 

Rebuckeled the check-strap, chained slacker the 
bit; 

Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

’Tvvas moonset at starting ; but while we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned 
clear; 

At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; 

At Duffeld, ’t was morning as plain as could be; 
And from Mechlen church-steeple we heard the 
half-chime— 

So Joris broke silence with “ Yet there is time ! ” 

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun. 

And against him the cattle stood, black every one. 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past; 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last. 

With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear 
bent back 

For my voice, and the other pricked out on his 
track; 

And one eye’s black intelligence—ever that glance 
O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance; 
And the thick, heavy spume-flakes, which aye and 
anon 

His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. 

By Hasselt Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, “ Stay 
spur! 

Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her ; 
We’ll remember at Aix ”—for one heard the quick 
wheeze 

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and stag¬ 
gering knees. 


And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank. 

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; 
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh ; 
’Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble 
like chaff; 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white. 
And “Gallop!” gasped Joris, “for Aix is in 
sight! 

•“ How they’ll greet us I ”—and all in a moment 
his roan 

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her 
fate. 

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim. 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let 
fall. 

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all. 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. 
Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without 
peer; 

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise 
bad or good. 

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is friends flocking round. 

As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the 
ground; 

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of 
wine. 

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought good news 
from Ghent. 


EYELYN HOPE. 


EAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead ! 
giU Sit and watch by her side an hour. 

That is her book-shelf, this her bed; 

She plucked that piece of geranium flower. 
Beginning to die too, in the glass. 

Little has yet been changed, I think : 

The shutters are shut, no light may pass 

Save two long rays through the hinge’s chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name ; 

It was not her time to love; beside. 

Her life had many a hope and aim. 


Duties enough, and little cares. 

And now was quiet, now astir. 

Till God’s hand beckoned unawares,— 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? 

What, your soul was pure and true. 

The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew,— 

And just because I was thrice as old, 

And our paths in the world diverge so wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I be told? 

We were fellow-mortals, naught beside? 







ROBERT BROWNING. 


127 


No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 

And creates the love to reward the love: 

I claim you still, for my own love’s sake ! 
Delayed it may be for more lives yet. 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: 
Much is to learn and much to forget 
Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come,—at last it will. 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall 
say. 

In the lower earth, in the years long still. 

That body and soul so pure and gay ? 

Why your hair was amber, I shall divine. 

And your mouth of your own geranium’s red— 
And what you would do with me, in fine. 

In the new life come in the old one’s stead. 

THE 

From “The Rin 

O you see this square old yellow Book, I toss 
I’ the air, and catch again, and twirl 
about 

By the crumpled vellum covers—pure crude fact 
Secreted from man’s life when hearts beat hard, 
And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries 
since? 

Examine it yourselves? I found this book. 

Gave a lira for it, eight pence English, just. 

Here it is, this I toss and take again ; 
Small-quarto size, part print, part manuscript: 

book in shape, but, really pure crude fact 
Secreted from man’s life when hearts beat hard, 
And brains high blooded, ticked two centuries 
since. 

I had mastered the contents, knew the whole truth 
Gathered together, bound up in this book, 

Print three-fifths, written supplement the rest. 

“ Romana Homicidiorum" —nay. 

Better translate—“A Roman Murder-case : 
Position of the entire criminal cause 
Of Guido Franceschini, nobleman. 

With certain Four the cut-throats in his pay, 
'Fried, all Five, and found guilty and put to death 
By heading or hanging as befitted ranks. 

At Rome of February 'Twenty-two, 

Since our salvation Ninety-eight: 

Wherein it is disputed, if and when. 

Husbands may kill adulterous wives, yet ’scape 
'Phe customary forfeit.” 

Word for word, 

So ran the title-i)age; murder, or else 


I have lived, I shall say, so much since then. 
Given up myself so many times. 

Gained me the gains of various men. 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; 

Yet one thing, one, in my soul’s full scope. 

Either I missed or itself missed me— 

And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue ? let us see ! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ! 

My heart seemed full as it could hold— 

'Phere was place and to spare for the frank young 
smile 

And the red young mouth and the hair’s young 
gold. 

So, hush,—I will give you this leaf to keep— 

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. 

There, that is our secret! go to sleep; 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 


AND THE Book.” 

Legitimate punishment of the other crime. 
Accounted murder by mistake—just that 
And no more, in a Latin cramp enough 
When the law had her eloquence to launch. 

But interbilleted with Italian streaks 
When testimony stooped to mother tongue— 
'Phat, was this old square yellow book about. 

Now, as the ingot ere the Ring was forged. 

Lay gold (beseech you, hold that figure fast!), 

So in this Book lay absolutely truth, 

Fanciless fact, the documents indeed. 

Primary lawyer-pleadings for, against, 

'Phe aforesaid Five; real summed-up circumstance 
Adduced in proof of these on either side. 

Put forth and printed, as the practice was. 

At Rome, in the Apostolic Chaml)er’s type. 

And so submitted to the eye o’ the Court 
Presided over by His Reverence 
Rome’s Governor and Criminal Judge—the trial 
Itself, to all intents, being then, as now, 

Here in this book, and nowise out of it; 

Seeing, there properly was no judgment bar, 

No bringing of accuser face to face 
Before some court, as we Conceive of Courts. 
There was a Hall of Justice ; that came last: 

For Justice had a chamber by the hall 
Where she took evidence first, summed up the 
same, 

Then sent accuser and accused alike. 

In person of the advocate of each. 

To weigh that evidence’s worth, arrange, array 
The battle. 









ALFRED AUSTIN. 

POET LAUREATE OF ENGLAND. 

HE English-speaking world was taken by surprise when, after 
the death of Tennyson, Lord Salisbury called to the vacant 
laureateship Mr. Alfred Austin. He had written much in both 
prose and verse, and he had all the qualities of a poet except 
the gift of genius which would enable him to touch the hearts 
and set the imagination of his readers on fire. 

Mr. Austin has done varied and strenuous work as a journal¬ 
ist. He served as a reporter in the Franco-German War, and also at the last great 
Vatican Council, for the London Stajidai'd, and has for many years been an editorial 
writer upon that paper. His three novels have attracted little attention ; but it was 
as a critic that he first became known to the reading world. His “Essays on the 
Poetry of the Period ” brought him into considerable note, and he did not spare 
even Tennyson and Browning, calling upon them for more power, more passion, 
and more real strength. How amusing it is that this irreconcilable critic should 
himself produce poetry lacking in exactly the qualities which he demanded of 
others! He has written two really delightful books of prose—“The Garden 
That I Love” and “Monica’s Garden.” In these he has done his best work, 
for the subjects are the flowers, hedges, secluded walks, and all the varying 
beauties of the landscape which he knows and loves. He is a scholarly, intelli¬ 
gent, and cultivated Englishman, a lover of the beautiful English scenery, and 
master of all the arts of the pen which can be cultivated. It is unfortunate for 
him that he came to the laureateship-after Tennyson and Wordsworth; but it is 
to be remembered that only four of the laureates—Jonson, Dryden, Wordsworth, 
and Tennyson—have been the leading poets of their time. Mr. Austin’s best poetry 
is written of the seasons, and it has been well said that he may in a special sense 
be styled the Laureate of the English Seasons. 




THE GOLDEN YEAR. 


HEN piped the love-warm throstle shrill, 
And all the air was laden 
With scent of dew and daffodil, 

I saw a youth and maiden, 

Whose color, Spring-like, came and fled, 
’Mong purple copses straying. 


While birchen tassels overhead 
Like marriage-bells kept swaying ; 
Filled with that joy that lingers still, 
Which Eve brought out of Aiden,— 
With scent of dew and daffodil 
When all the air was laden. 


128 
























ALFRED AUSTIN. 


I 


When primrose banks turn pale and fade, 
And meads wax deep and golden, 

And in lush dale and laughing glade 
Summer’s gay Court is holden. 

Then, nestling close, again I saw. 
Affianced girl and lover. 

She looking up with eyes of awe 
To burning gaze above her ; 

Playing anew the part oft played. 

Sung by the poets olden,— 

When primrose banks turn pale and fade. 
And meads wax deep and golden. 

When autumn woods began to glow, 

' And autumn sprays to shiver,- 
Once more I saw them walking slow. 

By sedgy-rustling river. 

The season’s flush was on her cheek. 

The season’s sadness o’er him : 


He stroked her hand, and bade her speak 
Of all the love she bore him. 

That only made her tears to flow. 

And chill his heart to quiver,— 

While autumn woods began to glow, 

And autumn sprays to shiver. 

When winter fields stretched stiff and stark. 
And wintry winds shrilled eerie, 

I saw him creep, alone, at dark. 

Into the churchyard dreary. 

He laid him down against the stone, 

’Neath which she aye lay sleeping. 

Kissed its cold face with many a moan. 

Then loudly fell a-weeping : 

“ Oh ! let me in from lonely cark. 

Or come thou back, my dearie ! ” 

But the wintry fields stretched stiff and stark 
And the wintry winds shrieked eerie ! 


—0^0.- 


A NIGHT IN JUNE. 


iTSHlADY, in this night of June, 

■ a.HM holy, 

.\rt thou gazing at the moon 
'Fhat is rising slowly? 

I am gazing on her now ; 
Something tells me, so art thou. 

Night hath been when thou and I 
Side by side were sitting. 

Watching o’er the moonlit sky 
Fleecy cloudlets flitting. 

Close our hands were linked then. 
When will they be linked again ? 

What to me the starlight still. 

Or the moonbeam’s splendor. 

If I do not feel the thrill 
Of thy fingers slender? 

Summer nights in vain are clear. 
If thy footstep be not near. 

Roses slumbering in their sheaths 
O’er my threshold clamber. 

And the honeysuckle wreathes 
Its translucent amber 

Round the gables of my home: 
How is it thou dost not come? 

I f thou earnest, rose on rose 
From its sleep would waken ; 

From each flower and leaf that blows 


Spices would be shaken ; 

Floating down from star and tree. 
Dreamy perfumes welcome thee. 

I would lead thee where the leaves 
In the moon-rays glisten ; 

And, where shadows fall in sheaves. 

We would lean and listen 

For the song of that sweet bird 
That in April nights is heard. 

And when weary lids would close. 

And thy head was drooping. 

Then, like dew that steeps the rose. 

O’er thy languor stooping, 

I would, till I woke a sigh. 

Kiss thy sweet lips silently. 

I would give thee all I own. 

All thou hast would borrow; 

I from thee would keep alone 
Fear and doubt and sorrow. 

All of tender that is mine. 

Should most tenderly be thine. 

Moonlight! into other skies, 

I beseech thee wander. 

Cruel, thus to mark mine eyes ; 

Idle, thus to squander 

Love’s own light on this dark spot :■ 
For my lady cometh not! 







SAMUEL JOHNSON. 

THE GREATEST FIGURE IN THE LITERATURE OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 

F no great man of the preceding century do we know so much as to 
the details of his life as of Samuel Johnson. His biography by 
Boswell is made up in great part of his conversation, and tells us 
so much of his life that it has been said “ everything about him— 
his wig, his figure, his rolling walk, his blinking eye, the outward 
signs which too clearly marked the approbation of his dinner, his 
insatiable appetite for fish sauce and veal pie with plums, his 
inexhaustible thirst for tea, his trick of touching the posts as he walked, his vigor¬ 
ous, acute, and ready eloquence, his wit, his insolence, his fits of tempestuous rage, 
his queer inmates—old Mr. Levitt and blind Mrs. Williams, the cat Hodge, and 
the negro Frank—all are as familiar to us as the objects by which we have 
been surrounded from childhood.” 

Johnson was educated at Oxford, and his father becoming insolvent, he 
attempted to gain a living as an usher in a school. He did not succeed, however, 
and turned to literature as a means of support. The way was hard to make, and 
the labors that he performed have probably never been equaled. He first 
attracted the attention of literary men by a poem entitled “London,” for which he 
received ten guineas. His greatest work was his “ English Dictionary,” which 
occupied him for nearly eight years. During the same time the forty members of 
the French Academy were engaged upon a similar work, which was not, however, 
equal to Johnson’s. The writings by which he is best known are those contained 
in his periodical paper. The Ratnbler ; his “ Vanity of Human Wishes ” ; the delight¬ 
ful story of “ Rasselas,” which was written to defray the expenses of his mother’s 
funeral, and the periodical called the Idler. 

“The characteristic peculiarity of Johnson’s intellect,” says a writer in the 
Edinburgh Review, “was the union of great powers with low prejudices. If we 
judge him by the best part of his mind, we should place him almost as high as he 
was placed by the idolatry of Boswell ; if by the worst parts of his mind, we should 
place him even below Boswell himself.” 

Johnson enjoyed, during the latter years of his life, a pension of three hundred 
pounds granted him by the government. He died, in London in 1784, the most 
distinguished figure among the literary men of his time. 

130 




















SAMUEL JOHNSON. 


I3I 


LETTER TO THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD. 


Y LORD .—1 have been lately informed, by 
the proprietor of the World, that two 
papers, in which my Dictionary is rec¬ 
ommended to the public, were written by your 
lordship. To be so distinguished, is an honor, 
which, being very little accustomed to favors from 
the great, I know not well how to receive, or in 
what terms to acknowledge. 

When, upon some slight encouragement, I first 
visited your lordship, 1 was overpowered, like the 
rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your 
address, and could not forbear to wish that I 
might boast myself the conqueror of the conqueror 
of the world, that I might obtain that regard for 
which 1 saw the world contending; but I found 
my attendance so little encouraged, that neither 
pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. 
When I had once addressed your lordship in pub¬ 
lic, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing which 
a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I 
had done all that I could ; and no man is well 
pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so 
little. 

Seven years, my lord, have now passed since I 
waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed 
from your door; during which time I have been 
pushing on my work through difficulties, of which 
it is useless to complain, and have brought it, at 
last, to the verge of publication, without one act 


of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one 
smile of favor. Such treatment I did not expect, 
for I never had a patron before. 

The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted 
with Love, and found him a native of the 
rocks. 

Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with 
unconcern on a man struggling for life in the 
water, and when he has reached the ground, en¬ 
cumbers him with help? The notice which you 
have been pleased to take of my labors, had it 
been early, had been kind; but it has been de¬ 
layed till I am indifferent, and can not enjoy it; 
till I am solitary, and can not impart it; till I am 
known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very 
cynical asperity not to confess obligations where 
no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling 
that the public should consider me as owing that 
to a patron, which Providence has enabled me to 
do for myself. 

Having carried on my work thus far with so 
little obligation to any favorer of learning, I shall 
not be disappointed, though I should conclude it, 
if less be possible, with less ; for I have been long 
wakened from that dream of hope, in which I 
once boasted myself with so much exultation. 

My Lord, your Lordship’s most humble. 

Most obedient servant, 

Samuel Johnson. 



..o^o>- 


THE DUTY OF 
Rambler, 

WISE man will make haste to forgive, be¬ 
cause he knows the true value of time, and 
will not suffer it to pass away in unneces¬ 
sary pain. He that willingly suffers the corrosions 
of inveterate hatred, and gives up his days and 
nights to the gloom of malice and perturbations 
of statagem, can not surely be said to consult his 
ease. Resentment is a union of sorrow with 
malignity, a combination of a passion which all 
endeavor to avoid with a passion which all concur 
to detest. The man who retires to meditate mis¬ 
chief, and to exasperate his own rage; whose 


FORGIVENESS. 

No. 185. 

thoughts are employed only on means of distress 
and contrivances of ruin; whose mind never 
pauses from the remembrance of his own suffer¬ 
ings, but to indulge some hope of enjoying the 
calamities of another, may justly be numbered 
among the most miserable of human beings, 
among those who are guilty without reward, who 
have neither the gladness of prosperity nor the 
calm of innocence. 

Whoever considers the weakness both of him¬ 
self and others, will not long want persuasives to 
forgiveness. We know not to what degree of 










132 


SAMUEL JOHNSON. 


malignity any injury is to be imputed; or how 
much its guilt, if we were to inspect the mind of 
him that committed it, would be extenuated by 
mistake, precipitance, or negligence; we can not 
be certain how much more we feel than was in¬ 
tended to be inflicted, or how much we increase 
the mischief to ourselves by voluntary aggrava¬ 
tions. We may charge to design the effects of 
accident; we may think the blow violent only 
because we have made ourselves delicate and 
tender; we are on every side in danger of error 
and of guilt, which we are certain to avoid only 
by speedy forgiveness. 

From this pacific and harmless temper, thus 
propitious to others and ourselves, to domestic 
tranquillity and to social happiness, no man is 
withheld but by pride, by the fear of being in¬ 
sulted by his adversary, or despised by the world. 

It may be laid down as an unfailing and uni¬ 
versal axiom, that “all pride is abject and mean.” 
It is always an ignorant, lazy, or cowardly acqui¬ 
escence in a false appearance of excellence, and 
proceeds not from consciousness of our attain¬ 
ments, but insensibility of our wants. 

Nothing can be great which is not right. Noth¬ 
ing which reason condemns can be suitable to the 
dignity of the human mind. To be driven by 
external motives from the path which our own 
heart approves, to give way to anything but con¬ 
viction, to suffer the opinion of others to rule our 
choice or overpower our resolves, is to submit 
tamely to the lowest and most ignominious slavery, 
and to resign the right of directing our own lives. 

The utmost excellency at which humanity can 
arrive, is a constant and determined pursuit of 


virtue, without regard to present dangers or ad¬ 
vantages ; a continual reference of every action to 
the divine will; an habitual appeal to everlasting 
justice ; and an unvaried elevation of the intel¬ 
lectual eye to the reward which perseverance only 
can obtain. But that pride which many, who 
presume to boast of generous sentiments, allow to 
regulate their measures, has nothing nobler in 
view than the approbation of men, of beings 
whose superiority we are under no obligation to 
acknowledge, and v/ho, when we have courted 
them with the utmost assiduity, can confer no 
valuable or permanent reward; of beings who 
ignorantly judge of what they do not understand, 
or partially determine what they never have 
examined ; and whose sentence is, therefore, of 
no weight till it has received the ratification of 
our own conscience. 

He that can descend to bribe suffrages like these 
at the price of his innocence ; he that can suffer 
the delight of such acclamations to withhold his 
attention from the commands of the universal 
Sovereign, has little reason to congratulate him¬ 
self upon the greatness of his mind: whenever he 
awakes to seriousness and reflection, he must be¬ 
come despicable in his own eyes, and shrink with 
shame from the remembrance of his cowardice 
aixi folly. 

Of him that hopes to be forgiven, it is indis¬ 
pensably required that he forgive. It is, there¬ 
fore, superfluous to urge any other motive. On 
this great duty eternity is suspended ; and to him 
that refuses to practise it, the throne of mercy is 
inaccessible, and the Saviour of the world has 
been born in vain. 


















E? 

. . Illllllllllllllll . . . . . . 

= j 

iJ 

5 ^ Tpf ^ ^ r 

SE 
? = 

5 = 
Si 
i = 

= * 

5 fe) feXfe) fc) Q 06) Q (fe) Q fe) Q © © © © 4) y « © © © © © © © 4) © © « © e c £) c 

aE 





THOMAS CARLYLE. 

ESSAYIST, BIOGRAPHER, AND HISTORIAN. 

HOMAS CARLYLE was in many respects the most interesting 
character among English men of letters of the century. The son 
of a Scotch stone mason and farmer, he never lost the respect for 
honest labor so characteristic of his countrymen, and his tender 
love for his peasant father and mother was the most beautiful 
phase of his contradictory character. “ If I had had all the mothers 
in the world to choose from,” writes he after her death, “I should 
have chosen my own.” There are few scenes in the biographies of great men 
more touching than Carlyle and his mother sitting and smoking together far into 
the night, while the famous son tries in tender words to explain to the admiring 
but anxious mother, whose life of hard labor has shut her out from the world in 
which he moves, how it is that his religion and hers can be really one and die same, 
while he must reject all the forms in which she expresses it. 

Carlyle was born in Ecclefechan, Scotland, December 4, 1794, and died in 
London, February 5, 1881. By dint of economy almost beyond belief in our self- 
indulgent generation, he was educated at the University of Edinburgh, and after¬ 
ward taught school for several years. He was private tutor in a wealthy London 
family for Wo years, and then returned to Edinburgh. His first literary work of 
note was a “ Life of Schiller,” and translations from the German. He was married 
in 1826 to Jane Welsh, a young lady of good family and of unusual abilities, who 
might herself have made a name in literature had she not devoted her life to Car¬ 
lyle. After a year or two in Edinburgh, the Carlyles removed to a wild moorland 
farm at Craigenputloch belonging to Mrs. Carlyle’s mother. It was a dreary spot, 
a mile from any other habitation, and here Mrs. Carlyle suffered for six years all 
the miseries of loneliness and hard labor and narrow circumstances. Here Carlyle 
did some of his best work, including most of his articles in the Edinburgh Review, 
a series of papers comprising a “ History of German Literature,” and that wonder¬ 
ful criticism of life and manners called “Sartor Resartus.” Money, however, did 
not come in satisfactorily, and at last they removed to London, taking up their 
residence in Chelsea, where they continued to live during both their lives. 

Here he wrote the “ History of the French Revolution,” “ Past and Present,” 
the “ Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell,” the “ History of Frederick the 
Great,” and a long list of essays and review articles. 

133 






























134 


THOMAS CARLYLE. 


For three successive years he delivered courses of lectures in London on 
literary subjects ; but public speaking was very distasteful to him, and he unwill¬ 
ingly consented to do so as a means of obtaining much-needed money. For the 
last thirty years of his life Carlyle was a celebrity. His writings had wielded 
immense influence both in England and America, and his house in Cheyne Row 
continues to be the Mecca of many literary pilgrimages. Carlyle’s intense honesty 
to some degree excused his harshness and frequent injustice. The vigor of his 
thought was clothed in a style which has been the occasion of many fierce debates. 
It has been said that in writing the “ French Revolution ” he painted the picture 
of that terrible conflict “ in lightning flashes.” 

Underneath his frequent errors of judgment and his harsh expression there was 
a soul of exquisite tenderness, and beneath the dyspeptic growling and constant 
surface discouragement, a high and noble courage. When he had loaned the 
manuscript of the first volume of the “French Revolution” to James Mill, and a 
careless servant had burned it, “it was,” he says, “as if the great Teacher had 
torn my copy when I showed it, and said, ‘ No, boy; thou must write it better.’ ” 

The life of Thomas Carlyle is full of interest. No biography should be more 
thoughtfully or more generally studied. His writings have the rare faculty of 
awakening thought, and if the intellectual forces of our time are moving in a 
higher plane to nobler ends, it is largely due to the life and labors of this great man. 


ENGLAND AFTER CROMWELL. 

“Cromwell,” Conclusion. 


HEIR works follow them; as I think 
this Oliver Cromwell’s works have done 
and are still doing ! We have had our 
“Revolutions of Eighty-eight,’’ officially called 
“glorious”; and other Revolutions not yet 
called glorious; and somewhat has been gained 
for poor Mankind. Men’s ears are not now slit 
off by rash Officiality; Officiality will, for long 
henceforth, be more cautious about men’s ears. 
The tyrannous Star-Chambers, branding-irons, 
chimerical Kings and Surplices at All-hallowtide, 
they are gone, or with immense velocity going. 
Oliver’s works do follow him ! The works of a 
man, bury them under what guano-mountains and 
obscene owl-droppings you will, do not perish, 
can not perish. What of Heroism, what of Eter¬ 
nal Light was in a Man and his Life, is with very 
great exactness added to the Eternities ; remains 
forever a new divine portion of the Sum of 
Things; and no owl’s voice, this way or that, in 


the least avails in the matter—But we have to end 
here. 

Oliver is gone: and with him England’s Puri¬ 
tanism, laboriously built together by this man, 
and made a thing far-shining, miraculous to its 
Century, and memorable to all the Centuries, 
soon goes. Puritanism, without its King, is 
kingiess, anarchic; falls into dislocation, self¬ 
collision ; staggers, plunges into ever deeper an¬ 
archy ; King, Defender of the Puritan Faith, 
there can now none be found ;—and nothing but 
to recall the old discrowned Defender with the 
remnant of his Four Surplices, and two Centuries 
of Hypocrisis (or Play-acting not so-called), and 
put up with all that, the best we may. The 
Genius of England no longer soars Sunward, 
world-defiant, like an Eagle through the storms, 
“ mewing her mighty youth,” as John Milton 
saw her do : the Genius of England, much like a 
greedy Ostrich intent on provender and a whole 







THOMAS CARLYLE. 


135 


skin mainly, stands with its other extremity Sun¬ 
ward, with its Ostrich-head stuck into the readiest 
bush, of old Church-tippets, King-cloaks, or what 
other “ sheltering Fallacy ” there may be, and so 
awaits the issue. The issue has been slow ; but it 
is now seen to have been inevitable. No Ostrich, 


intent on gross terrene provender, and sticking its 
head into Fallacies, but will be awakened one day— 
in terrible a-posteriori manner, if not otherwise !— 
Awake before it come to that; gods and men bid us 
awake ! The Voices of our Fathers,with thousand¬ 
fold stern monition to one and all, bid us awake. 


- 


CARLYLE ON HIS DYSPEPSIA. 


OR one or two or three and twenty years of 
my mortal life I was not conscious of the 
ownership of that diabolical arrangement 
called a Stomach. I had been destined by my 
father and my father’s minister to be myself a 
Minister of the Kirk of Scotland. But, now that 
I had gained the years of man’s estate, I was not 
sure that I believed the doctrines of my father’s 
Kirk, and it was needful that I should now settle it. 
And so I entered into my chamber and closed the 
door. And around about me there came a troop¬ 
ing throng of phantoms dire, from the abysmal 


depths of nethermost perdition. Doubt, Fear, 
Unbelief, Mockery, and Scoffing were there, and 
I wrestled with them in the travail and agony of 
spirit. Thus was it for weeks. Whether I ate I 
know not; whether I slept I know not; but I 
only know that when I came forth again beneath 
the glimpses of the moon, it was with the direful 
persuasion that I was the miserable owner of a 
diabolical apparatus called a Stomach. And I 
never have been free from that knowledge from 
that hour to this ; and I suppose that I never shall 
be until I am laid away in my grave. 



-.O^O*.- 


HONEST 

From an Address to the Students 

F you will believe me, you who are young, 
yours is the golden season of life. As you 
have heard it called, so it verily is,—the 
seed-time of life, in which, if you do not sow, or if 
you sow tares instead of wheat, you can not expect 
to reap well afterward,—you wdll bitterly repent 
when it is too late. The habits of study acquired 
at universities are of the highest importance in 
after-life. At the season when you are young in 
years, the wdiole mind is, as it were, fluid, and is 
capable of forming itself into any shape that the 
owner of the mind pleases to let it, or order it to 
form itself into. Pursue your studies in the way 
your conscience calls honest. Keep an actual 
separation between what you have really come to 
know in your own minds and wfliat is still un¬ 
known. Count a thing known only when it is 
stamped on your mind so that you may survey it 
on all sides with intelligence. There is such a 
thing as a man endeavoring to persuade himself, 
and endeavoring to persuade others, that he know’s 
about things, when he does not know more than 


STUDY. 

OF THE University of Edinburgh. 

the outside skin of them ; and yet he goes flourish¬ 
ing about with them. Avoid all that as entirely 
unworthy of an honorable mind. Gradually see 
what kind of work you can do ; for it is the first 
of all problems for a man to find out wdiat kind of 
work he is to do in this universe. 

A man is born to expend every particle of 
strength that God has given him in doing the 
work he finds he is fit for—to stand up to it to 
the last breath of life, and to do his best. We 
are called upon to do that; and the rew-ard we all 
get is that we have got the work done, or, at least, 
that we have tried to do the work. For this is a 
great blessing in itself; and, I should say, there is 
not very much more reward than that going in 
this world. If the man gets meat and clothes, 
what matters it whether he have ten thousand 
pounds or seventy pounds a year? He can get 
meat and clothes for that; and he will find very 
little difference, intrinsically, if he is a wise 
man. 

Finally, gentlemen, I have one advice to give 











136 


THOMAS CARLYLE. 


you, which is practically of very great importance, 
—that health is a thing to be attended to contin¬ 
ually,—that you are to regard that as the very 
highest of all temporal things. There is no kind 
of achievement you could make in the world that 
is equal to perfect health. What to it are nuggets 
and millions? The French financier said, “Alas ! 
why is there no sleep to be sold ? ” Sleep is not in 

*C 

CLOTHES AND TH 
“ Sartor 

' ;LL visible things are Emblems; what thou 
I seest is not thereon itsown account; strictly 
taken, it is not there at all. Matter exists 
only spiritually, and to represent some Idea, and body 
it forth. Hence Clothes, despicable as we think 
them, are so unspeakably significant. Clothes, 
from the King’s mantle downward, are Emblem¬ 
atic, not of want only, but of a manifold cunning 
Victory over Want. On the other hand, all Em¬ 
blematic things are properly Clothes, thought- 
woven or hand-woven. Must not the Imagination 
weave Garments, visible Bodies, wherein the else 
invisible creations and inspirations of our Reason 
are, like Spirits, revealed, and first become all- 
powerful; the rather if, as we often see, the Hand, 
too, aid her, and (by wool Clothes or otherwise) 
reveal such even to the outward eye ? Men are 
said to be clothed with Authority, clothed with 


the market at any quotation. It is a curious thing 
that the old word for “holy”—in the German 
language,—also means “healthy.” Look, 
then, always at the heilig, which means “ healthy ” 
as well as “holy.” Stand up to your work, 
whatever it may be, and be not afraid of it,—not 
in sorrows or contradiction to yield, but push on 
toward the goal. 

Q.- 

HR SIGNIFICANCE. 

ESARTUS. ” 

Beauty, with Curses, and the like. Nay, if you 
consider it, what is Man himself and his whole 
terrestrial Life, but an Emblem ; a Clothing or 
visible Garment for that divine Me of his, cast 
hither, like a light-particle, down from Heaven. 
Thus is he said also to be clothed with a Body. 

. . . Why multiply instances? It is written. The 
Heavens and the Earth shall fade away like a Ves¬ 
ture ; which indeed they are: the Time-vesture of 
the Eternal. Whatsoever sensibly exists, whatso¬ 
ever represents Spirit to Spirit, is properly a Cloth¬ 
ing, a suit of Raiment, put on for a season, and 
to be laid off. Thus in this one pregnant subject 
of Clothes, rightly understood, is included all that 
men have thought, dreamed, done, and been. 
The whole External Universe, and what it holds, 
is but Clothing; and the essence of all Science 
lies in the Philosophy of Clothes. 



-••0^0*- 

THE EVERLASTING YEA. 
“Sartor Resartus.’’ 


.\N’S L^nhappiness, as I construe, comes of 
his Greatness; it is because there is an 
Infinite in him, which with all his cun¬ 
ning he can not quite bury under the Finite. 
Will the whole Finance Ministers and Upholster¬ 
ers and Confectioners of modern Europe under¬ 
take, in joint-stock company, to make one Shoe¬ 
black happy? They can not accomplish it, above 
an hour or two; for the Shoeblack also has a Soul 
quite other than his Stomach ; and would require, 
if you consider it, for his permanent satisfaction 
and saturation, simply this allotment, no more, 
and no less: God's itifinite Universe altogether to 


himself therein to enjoy infinitely, and fill every 
wish as fast as it rose. Oceans of Hochheimer, a 
Throat like that of Ophiuchus: speak not of them ; 
to the infinite Shoeblack they are as nothing. No 
sooner is your ocean filled, than he grumbles that 
it might have been of better vintage. Try him 
with half of a Universe, of an Omnipotence, he 
sets to quarreling with the proprietor of the other 
half, and declares himself the most maltreated of 
men. Always there is a black spot in our sun¬ 
shine : it is even, as I said, the Shadoru of Ourselves. 

“ But the w'him we have of Happiness is some¬ 
what thus. By certain valuations, and averages. 











THOMAS CARLYLE. 


137 


of our own striking, we come upon some sort of 
average terrestrial lot ; this we fancy belongs to 
us by nature, and of indefeasible right. It is 
simple payment of our wages, of our deserts : re¬ 
quires neither thanks nor complaint: only such 
overplus as there may be do we account Happi¬ 
ness; any again is Misery. Now consider 

that we have the valuation of our own deserts our¬ 
selves, and Avhat a fund of Self-conceit there is in 
each of us,—do you wonder that the balance 
should so often dip the wrong way, and many a 
Blockhead cry : See there, what a payment; was 
ever worthy gentleman so used!—I tell thee. 
Blockhead, it all comes of thy Vanity; of what 
thou fanciest those same deserts of thine to be. 
Fancy that thou deservest to be hanged (as is 
most likely), thou wilt feel it happiness to be only 
shot; fancy that thou deservest to be hanged 
in a hair-halter, it will be a luxury to die in hemp. 


“ So true it is, what I then said, that the Frac¬ 
tion of Life can be increased in value not so muck 
by increasing your Numerator as by lessening your 
Denominator. Nay, unless my Algebra deceive 
me, Unity itself divided by ZerowWl give Infinity. 
Make thy claim of wages zero, then ; thou hast 
the world under thy feet. Well did the Wisest of 
our time write: ‘It is only with Renunciation 
(Entsagen) that Life, properly speaking, can be 
said to begin.’ 

“ ‘£s leuchtet mir ein, I see a glimpse of it! ’ cries 
he elsewhere: ‘ there is in a man a Higher than 
Love of Happiness : he can do without Happiness, 
and instead thereof find Blessedness ! Love not 
Pleasure; love God. This is the Everlasting 
Yea, wherein all contradiction is solved ; wherein 
whoso walks and works, it is well with him.’ ” 


ORATORY AND 

“ Latter Day 

ET the young English soul, in whatever 
logic shop and nonsense-verse establish¬ 
ment he may be getting his young idea 
taught how to speak and spout, and print sermons 
and review articles, and thereby show himself and 
his fond patrons that it /Van idea—lay this solemnly 
to heart; this is my deepest counsel to him ! 
The idea you have once spoken, even if it Avere 
an idea, is no longer yours; it is gone from you ; 
so much life and virtue is gone, and the vital cir¬ 
culations of yourself and your destiny and activ¬ 
ity are henceforth deprived of it. If you could 
not get it spoken, if you could still constrain it 
into silence, so much the richer are you. Better 
keep your idea while you can ; let it circulate in 
your blood, and there fructify; inarticulately in¬ 
citing you to good activities; giving to your 
whole spiritual life a ruddier health. . . Be not a 
Public Orator, thou brave young British man, 
thou that art now growing up to be something ; 
not a Stump-Orator if thou canst help it. Appeal 
not to the vulgar, with its long ears and seats in 
the Cabinet; not by spoken words to the vulgar ; 
hate the profane 'vulgar, and bid it begone. ! 


LITERATURE. 

Pamphlet V. 

Appeal by silent work, by silent suffering, if there 
be no work, to the gods, who have nobler seats 
than in the Cabinet for thee. 

Talent for Literature, thou hast such a talent ? 
Believe it not, be slow to believe it! To speak or 
write. Nature did not peremptorily order thee ; 
but to work she did. And know this: there 
never was a talent even for real Literature—not 
to speak of talents lost and damned in doing sham 
Literature, but was primarily a talent for doing 
something infinitely better of the silent kind. Of 
Literature, in all ways, be shy rather than other¬ 
wise at present. There where thou art, work, 
work ; whatever thy hand findeth to do, do it— 
with the hand of a man, not of a phantasm; be 
that thy unnoticed blessedness and exceeding 
great reward. Thy words,—let them be few, and 
well-ordered. Love silence rather than speech in 
these days, when, for very speaking, the voice of 
man has fallen inarticulate to man ; and hearts, in 
this loud babbling, sit dark and dumb toward one 
another. Witty: above all, O be not witty; none of 
us is bound to be witty, under penalties ; to be wise 
! and true we all are, under the terriblest penalties! 








JOHN RUSKIN. 

CRITIC OF ART, AND MEN, AND MANNERS. 

HE prose of John Ruskin is probably the smoothest and most mush 
cal in the language. He himself says that he has been compelled 
to guard against his faculty of “stringing words somewhat prettily 
together,” believing that he was thus in danger of sacrificing 
the strength and force of his statements ; but the reader must 
acknowledge that the beauty of expression and the melodious sound 
of his pages give them a quality all their own, and, far from weaken¬ 
ing them, give them a new power and effect. Ruskin has written principally upon 
painting and architecture, though his later works, many of which were originally 
delivered as lectures, are chiefly devoted to morals, and sometimes to political 
economy. In the last field he has been less fortunate than in either of the others. 
To speak of his books as criticisms of art and architecture is, however, very mis¬ 
leading, for his real interest was in ethics and philosophy, and these are the topics 
which are of vital importance in his writings, whether he talks of buildings or pic¬ 
tures or crystallization. His principal work has been to call attention to the merits 
of the school of modern painters, of which Turner is the chief; to elevate and 
ennoble popular conceptions of art and architecture ; and to do much to form good 
taste in literature in the very wide circles of those who have read his books or 
heard his lectures. 

He was born in London in 1819, and was the son of a prosperous wine 
merchant. He gained the prize at Oxford for English poetry, and in his early 
manhood wrote no little verse. His principal works have been “ Modern Painters,” 
“ The Seven Lamps of Architecture,” “The Stones of Venice,” “ King of a Golden 
River: a Fairy Tale,” “Edinburgh Lectures on Architecture,” “ The^Two Paths,” 
“Unto this Last,” “ Munera Pulveris,” “Sesame and Lilies,” “The Ethics of the 
Dust,” “ Crown of Wild Olives,” “ Fors Clavigera,” “ Arata Pentelici,” and “ Pr^- 
terita.” He has held lectureships on the fine arts at both Cambridge and Oxford, 
but in recent years his mental vigor has given away. 

The book “ Sesame and Lilies ” is two lectures, the first of which is upon the 
general topic of books and reading; sesame being the magic word to open, and the 
lecture being intended to open the king's treasuries, as. he calls them, of good 
books locked up in our libraries. In “The Ethics of the Dust” are ten lectures 
on crystallization delivered to a girls’ school. 

138 



























JOHN RUSKIN. 


139 


BOOKS AND THEIR USES. 
From “Sesame and Lilies.” 


EARLY all our associations are determined 
by chance or necessity; and restricted 
within a narrow circle. We can not know 
whom we would ; and those whom we know, we can 
not have at our side when we most need them. All 
the higher circles of human intelligence are, to 
those beneath, only momentarily and partially open. 
We may, by good fortune, obtain a glimpse of a 
great poet, and hear the sound of his voice ; or put 
a question to a man of science, and be answered 
good-humoredly. We may intrude ten minutes’ 
talk on a cabinet minister, answered probably with 
words worse than silence, being deceptive; or 
snatch, once or twice in our lives, the privilege of 
throwing a bouquet in the path of a princess, or 
arresting the kind glance of a Queen. And yet 
those momentary chances we covet; and spend 
our years, and passions, and powers, in pursuit of 
little more than these ; while, meantime, there is a 
society continually open to us, of people who will 
talk to us as long as we like, whatever our rank or 
occupation ; talk to us in the best words they 
can choose, and with thanks if we listen to them. 
And this society, because it is so numerous and 
so gentle, and can be kept waiting round us all 
day long, not to grant audience, but to gain it; 
kings and statesmen lingering patiently in those 
plainly furnished and narrow anterooms, our book¬ 
case shelves,—we make no account of that com¬ 
pany ; perhaps never listen to a word they would 
say, all day long ! 

But a book is written, not to multiply the 
voice merely, not to carry it merely, but to pre¬ 
serve it. The author has something to say 
which he perceives to be true and useful, or 
helpfully beautiful. So far as he knows, no one 
has yet said it; so /ar as he knows, no one 
else can say it. He is bound to say it, clearly 
and melodiously if he may ; clearly, at all events. 
In the sum of his life he finds this to be the thing, 
or group of things, manifest to him ;—this the 
piece of true knowledge, or sight, which his share 
of sunshine and earth has permitted him to seize. 
He would fain set it down forever; engrave it 


on rock, if he could ; saying, “ This is the best of 
me ; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved 
and hated, like another ; my life was as the vapor, 
and is not; but this I saw and knew; this, if any¬ 
thing of mine, is worth your memory.” That is his 
“writing”; it is, in his small human way, and 
with whatever degree of true inspiration is in him, 
his inscription, or scripture. That is, a “ Book.” 

Now, books of this kind have been written in 
all ages, by their greatest men ; by great leaders, 
great statesmen, and great thinkers. These are 
all at your choice ; and life is short. You have 
heard as much before ;—yet have you measured 
and mapped out this short life and its possibilities? 
Do you know if you read this, that you can not 
read that—that what you lose to-day you can not 
gain to-morrow? Will you go and gossip with 
your housemaid, or your stable-boy, when you may 
talk with queens and kings; or flatter yourselves 
that it is with any worthy consciousness of your 
own claims to respect that you jostle with the com¬ 
mon crowd for entree here, and audience there, 
when all the while this eternal court is open to you, 
with its society wide as the world, multitudinous 
as its days, the chosen, and the mighty, of every 
place and time ? Into that you may enter always; 
in that you may take fellowship and rank accord¬ 
ing to your wish ; from that, once entered into it, 
you can never be outcast but by your own fault; 
by your aristocracy of companionship there, your 
own inherent aristocracy will be as.suredly tested, 
and the motives with which you strive to take 
high place in the society of the living, measured, 
as to all the truth and sincerity that are in them, 
by the place you desire to take in this company 
of the dead. 

“The place you desire,” and the place you 
fit yourself for, I must also say ; because, observe, 
this court of the past differs from all living aris¬ 
tocracy in this: it is open to labor and to merit, 
but to nothing else. No wealth will bribe, no 
name overawe, no artifice deceive, the guardian 
of those Elysian gates. In the deep sense, no 
vile or vulgar person ever enters there. 







140 


JOHN RUSKIN. 


There is but brief question : “ Do you 
deserve to enter? ” “ Pass. Do you ask to be 

the companion of nobles? Make yourself noble, 
and you shall be. Do you long for the conversa¬ 
tion of the wise? Learn to understand it, and 
you shall hear it. But on other terms ?—no. If 
you will not rise to us, we can not stoop to you. 


The living lord may assume courtesy, the living 
philosopher explain his thought to you with con¬ 
siderable pain ; but here we neither feign nor 
interpret; you must rise to the level of our 
thoughts if you would be gladdened by them, 
and share our feelings if you would recognize our 
presence.” 


-. 0 ^ 0 *- 


HOME VIRTUES. 

From “The Ethics of the Dust.” 

'I'he lecturer is seated in the library with the children about him. 


OU might think Miss Edgeworth meant that 
the right was to be done mainly because 
one is always rewarded for doing it. It is 
an injustice to her to say that ; her heroines always 
do right simply for its own sake, as they should ; 
and her examples of conduct and motive are wholly 
admirable. But her representation of events is false 
and misleading. Her good characters never are 
brought into the deadly trial of goodness,—the 
doing right, and suffering for it, quite finally. 
And that is life, as God arranges it. “Taking 
up one’s cross ” does not at all mean having ova¬ 
tions at dinner parties, and being put over every¬ 
body else’s head. 

Dora. But what does it mean then? That is 
just what we couldn’t understand, when you were 
telling us about not sacrificing ourselves, yester¬ 
day. 

L. My dear, it means simply that you are to go 
the road which you see to be the straight one ; 
carrying whatever you find is given you to carry, 
as well and stoutly as you can ; without making 
faces, or calling people to come and look at you. 
Above all, you are neither to load, nor unload, 
yourself; nor cut your cross to your own liking. 
Some people think it would be better for them to 
have it large ; and many, that they could carry it 
much faster if it were small; and even those who 
like it largest are usually very particular about its 
being ornamental, and made of the best ebony. 
But all that you have really to do is to keep your 
back as straight as you can ; and not think about 
what is upon it—above all, not to boast of what 
is upon it The real and essential meaning of 


“virtue” is in that straightness of back. Yes; 
you may laugh, children, but it is. You know I 
was to tell you about the words that began with V. 
Sibyl, what does “virtue ” mean literally ? 

Sibyl. Does it mean courage? 

L. Yes; but a particular kind of courage. It 
means courage of the nerve ; vital courage. That 
first syllable of it, if you look in Max Muller, 
you will find really means “nerve,” and from it 
come “vis,” and “ vir,” and “ virgin ” (through 
vireo), and the connected word “virga”—“a 
rod” ;—the green rod, or springing bough of a 
tree, being the type of perfect human strength, 
both in the use of it in the Mosaic story, when it 
becomes a serpent, or strikes the rock; or when 
Aaron’s bears its almonds; and in the metaphori¬ 
cal expressions, the “Rod out of the stem of 
Jesse,” and the “ Man whose name is the Branch,” 
and so on. And the essential idea of real virtue 
is that of a vital human strength, which instinc¬ 
tively, constantly, and without motive, does what 
is right. You must train men to this by habit, as 
you would the branch of a tree; and give them 
instincts and manners (or morals) of purity, jus¬ 
tice, kindness, and courage. Once rightly trained, 
they act as they should, irrespective of all motive, 
of fear, or of reward. It is the blackest sign of 
putrescence in a national religion, when men 
speak as if it were the only safeguard of conduct; 
and assume that, but for the fear of being burned, or 
for the hope of being rewarded, everybody would 
pass their lives in lying, stealing, and murder¬ 
ing. 

Violet {after long pause'). But, then, what con- 







JOHN RUSKIN. 


tinual threatenings, and promises of reward there 
are ! 

L. And how vain both! with the Jews, and 
with all of us. But the fact is, that the threat 
and promise are simple statements of the Divine 
law, and of its consequences. The fact is truly 


141 

told you,—make what use you may of it: and as 
collateral warning, or encouragement, comfort, 
the knowledge of future consequences may often 
be helpful to us; but helpful chiefly to the better 
state when we can act without reference to 
them. 


-.o^o«- 


ART ROOTED IN MAN’S MORAL NATURE. 
From “ Modern Painters.” 


N these books of mine, their distinctive 
character as essays on art is their bringing 
everything to a root in human passion or 
human hope. Arising first not from any desire to 
explain the principles of art, but in the endeavor 
to defend an individual painter from injustice, 
they have been colored throughout—nay, continu¬ 
ally altered in shape, and even warped and 
broken—by digressions respecting social ques¬ 


tions which had for me an interest tenfold greater 
than the work I had been forced into undertaking. 
Every principle of painting which I have stated is 
traced to some vital or spiritual fact; and in my 
works on architecture the preference accorded 
finally to one school over another is founded on 
their influence on the life of the workman—a 
question by all the other writers on the subject of 
architecture wholly forgotten or despised. 



-.ofo*- 


TRUTHFULNESS IN ART. 
From “Modern Painters.” 


F it were possible for Art to give all the 
truths of Nature, it ought to do it. But 
this is not possible. Choice must always 
be made of some facts, which can be represented, 
from among others which must be passed by in sil¬ 
ence, or even, in some respects, misrepresented. 
The inferior artist chooses unimportant and scat¬ 
tered truths; the great artist chooses the most 
necessary first, and afterward the most consistent 
with these, so as to obtain the greatest possible and 
most harmonious sum. For instance, Rembrandt 
always chooses to represent the exact force with 
which the light on the most illuminated part of an 
object is opposed to its obscurer portions. In 
order to obtain this in most cases not very im¬ 
portant truth, he sacrifices the light and color of 
five-sixths of his picture; and the expression of 
every character of objects which depends on ten¬ 
derness of shape or tint. But he obtains his single 
truth, and what picturesque and forcible expres¬ 
sion is dependent upon it, with magnificent skill 
and subtlety. 

Veronese, on the contrary, chooses to represent 


the great relations of visible things to each other, 
to the heaven above, and to the earth beneath 
them. He holds it more important to show how 
a figure stands relieved from delicate air, or mar¬ 
ble wall; how, as a red, or a purple, or a white 
figure, it separates itself, in clear discernibility, 
from things not red, nor purple, nor white ; how 
infinite daylight shines round it; how innumer¬ 
able veils of faint shadow invest it; how its black¬ 
ness and darkness are, in the excess of their na¬ 
ture, just as limited and local as its intensity of 
light; all this, I say, he feels to be more import¬ 
ant than merely showing the e.xact 7 neasure of the 
spark of sunshine that gleams on a dagger-hilt, or 
glows on a jewel. All this, however, he feels to 
be harmonious—capable of being joined in one 
great system of spacious truth. And with inevita¬ 
ble watchfulness, inestimable subtlety, he unites 
all this in tenderest balance, noting in each hair’s- 
breadth of color not merely what is rightness or 
wrongness in itself, but what its relation is to 
every other on his canvas. 











FREDERICK WILLIAM EARRAR. 

DEAN OF CANTERBURY, AUTHOR OF THE MOST POPULAR “LIFE OF CHRIST.” 


UR age is frequently described as one of skepticism, if not of 
infidelity; but a truer reading of the signs of the times leads to 
the conclusion that it is rather an age of broader and more genu¬ 
ine Christianity—the age in which the so-called conflict between 
science and religion has ended, and men are coming to see the 
unity of truth. No man has done more to bring about this result 
than Dean Farrar. He was born in Bombay in 1831, and was 
educated at King William’s College, Isle of Man, King’s College, London, and at 
Trinity College, Cambridge. He was admitted to priest’s orders in 1857, 
an assistant master at the famous school of Harrow for several years. He then 
became head master of Marlborough College, where he remained until he was 
appointed canon in Westminster Abbey, in 1876. He became Archdeacon of 
Westminster in 1883, and, later. Dean of Canterbury. He has sketched the story 
of his school life on the Isle of Man in the story of “ Eric, or Little by Little,” 
which was his first book, the proposal to write which came to him unsought, 
and made him an author, as he says, by accident. The book has passed through 
twenty-six editions. He has written two other works of fiction, the popular ro¬ 
mances, “Darkness and Dawn” and “Gathering Clouds” ; many volumes of ser¬ 
mons and theological papers; three learned books, “The Origin of Language,” 
“Chapters on Language,” and “Families of Speech” ; a course of lectures on the 
“Witness of History to Christ”; a great volume on the doctrines of judgment 
and a future state ; besides the three books by which he is chiefly known, the “ Life 
of Christ,” “Life and Work of St. Paul,” and “Beginnings of Christianity.” He 
is a voluminous and most acceptable writer in religious papers, and his literary 
work seems to be nowhere near completion. 

Any American visiting England should not fail, if possible, to hear a sermon 
by the eloquent Rector of St. Margaret’s, the Dean of Canterbury. To his ori¬ 
ental birthplace some of the vivid rhetoric and pictorial imagination which mark 
both his books and sermons may be owing. He has more than once aroused great 
controversy by the announcement of theological views at variance with those held 
as rigidly “orthodox.” This has apparently died out as religious thought has 
advanced, and Dean Farrar’s latest writings dealing with the authority and inter¬ 
pretation of the Scriptures have met with little hostile criticism. 

142 





















HKNRY DRUMMOND. KKV. JOHN WATSON (lAN MACLARKN.) 



CHARLES HAUDON SPURGEON. 


FREDERICK W. FARRAR. 


WRITERS OF religious CLASSICS. 



















FREDERICK WILLIAM FARRAR. 


^43 


THE HILL OF NAZARETH. 
From “ The Like of Christ.” 


n T has been implied that there are but two 
spots in Palestine where we may feel an 
absolute moral certainty that the feet 
of Christ have trod—namely, the well-side at 
Shechem, and the turning of that road from 
Bethany over the Mount of Olives from which 
Jerusalem first bursts upon the view. But to these 
I would add at least another—the summit of the 
hill on which Nazareth is built. That summit is 
now unhappily marked, not by any Christian 
monument, but by the wretched, ruinous, crumb¬ 
ling wely of some obscure Mohammedan saint. 
Certainly there is no child of ten years old in 
Nazareth now, however dull and unimpressionable 
he may be, who has not often wandered up to it; 
and certainly there could have been no boy at 
Nazareth in olden days who had not followed the 
common instinct of humanity by climbing up those 
thymy hill-slopes to the lovely and easily accessible 
spot which gives a view of the world beyond. 
The hill rises six hundred feet above the level of 
the sea. Four or five hundred feet below lies the 
happy valley. The view from this spot would in 
any country be regarded as extraordinarily rich 
and lovely; but it receives a yet more indescrib¬ 
able charm from our belief that here, with his feet 
among the mountain flowers, and the soft breeze 
lifting the hair from his temples, Jesus must often 
have watched the eagles poised in the cloudless 
blue, and have gazed upwards as He heard over¬ 
head the rushing plumes of the long line of peli¬ 
cans, as they winged their way from the streams 
of Kishon to the Lake of Galilee. And what a 
vision would be outspread before Him, as He sat 
at spring-time on the green and thyme-besprinkled 
turf! To Him every field and fig-tree, every 
palm and garden, every house and synagogue, 
would have been a familiar object; and most 
fondly of all among the square, flat-roofed houses 
would his eye single out the little dwelling-place 
of the village carpenter. To the north, just beneath 
them, lay the narrow and fertile plan of Asochis, 
from which rise the wood-crowned hills of Naph- 
tali, and conspicuous on one of them Avas Safed, 
“ the city set upon a hill” ; beyond these, on the 


far horizon, Hermon upheaved into the blue the 
huge splendid mass of his colossal shoulder, white 
with eternal snows. Eastward, at a few miles’ dis¬ 
tance, rose the green and rounded summit of 
Tabor, clothed with terebinth and oak. To the 
west He would gaze through that diaphanous air 
on the purple ridge of Carmel, among whose 
forests Elijah had found a home; and on Caifa 
and Accho, and the dazzling line of white sand 
which fringes the waves of the Mediterranean, 
dotted here and there with the white sails of the 
“ships of Chittim.” Southward, broken only 
by the graceful outlines of Little Hermon and 
Gilboa, lay the entire plain of Esdraelon, so 
memorable in the history of Palestine and of the 
world, across which lay the southward path to 
that city which had ever been the murderess of 
the prophets, and where it may be that even then, 
in the dim forshadowing of prophetic vision. He 
foresaw the agony in the garden, the mockings 
and scourgings, the cross, and the crown of 
thorns. 

The scene which lay there outspread before the 
eyes of the youthful Jesus, w'as indeed a central 
spot in the world which He came to save. It was 
in the heart of the Land of Israel, and yet— 
separated from it only by a narrow boundary of 
hills and streams—Phoenicia, Syria, Arabia, Baby¬ 
lonia, and Egypt lay close at hand. The Isles of 
the Gentiles, and all the glorious regions of 
Europe, were almost visible over the shining 
Avaters of that Av^estern sea. The standards of 
Rome were planted on the plain before Him; the 
language of Greece Avas spoken in the tOAvns 
beloAv. And hoAvever peaceful it then might 
look, green as a pavement of emeralds, rich with 
its gleams of vivid sunlight, and the purpling 
shadoAvs which floated over it from the clouds of 
the latter rain, it had been for centuries a battle¬ 
field of nations. Pharaohs and Ptolemies, Emirs 
and Arsacids, Judges and Consuls, had all con¬ 
tended for the mastery of that smiling tract. It 
had glittered Avith the lances of the Amalekites; 
it had trembled under the chariot-Avheels of 
Sesostris; it had echoed the tAA'anging bowstrings 





144 


FREDERICK WILLIAM FARRAR. 


of Sennacherib; it had been trodden by the 
phalanxes of Macedonia; it had clashed with the 
broadswords of Rome; it was destined hereafter 
to ring with the battle-cry of the Crusaders, and 
thunder with the artillery of England and of 
France. In that plain of Jezreel, Europe and 


Asia, Judaism and Heathenism, Barbarism and 
Civilization, the Old and the New Covenant, the 
history of the past and the hopes of the present, 
seemed all to meet. No scene of deeper signifi¬ 
cance for the destines of humanity could possibly 
have arrested the youthful Saviour’s gaze. 


-.o^o«- 

THE GREATNESS OF ST. PAUL. 
From “ Life and Work of St. Paul.” 


n ow little did men recognize his greatness ! 
Here was one to whom no single man that 
has ever lived, before or since, can fur¬ 
nish a perfect parallel. If we look at him oiily as 
a writer, how immensely does he surpass, in his 
most casual Epistles, the greatest authors, whether 
Pagan or Christian, of his own and succeeding 
epochs. The younger Pliny was famous as a let¬ 
ter writer, yet the younger Pliny never produced 
any letter so exquisite as that to Philemon. 
Seneca, as a moralist, stood almost unrivaled, yet 
not only is clay largely mingled with his gold, but 
even his finest moral aphorisms are inferior in 
breadth and intensity to the most casual of St. 
Paul’s. Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius furnish 
us with the purest and noblest specimens of stoic 
loftiness of thought, yet St. Paul’s chapter on 
charity is worth more than all they ever wrote. 
If we look at the Christian world, the very great¬ 
est worker in each realm of Christian service does 
but present an inferior aspect of one phase only 
of Paul’s many-sided pre-eminence. As a theo¬ 
logian, as one who formulated the doctrines of 
Christianity, we may compare him with St. Augus¬ 
tine and St. Thomas of Aquinum ; yet how should 
we be shocked to find in him the fanciful rhetoric 
and dogmatic bitterness of the one, or the schol¬ 
arly aridity of the other! If we look at him as a 


moral reformer, we may compare him with Savon¬ 
arola ; but in his practical control of even the 
most thrilling spiritual impulses—in making the 
spirit of the prophet subject to the prophet—how 
grand an exemplar might he not have furnished 
to the impassioned Florentine ! If we consider 
him as a preacher, we may compare him to St. 
Bernard ; yet St. Paul would have been incapable 
of the unnatural asceticism and heresy-hunting 
hardness of the great abbot of Clairvaux. As a 
reformer who altered the entire course of human 
history, Luther alone resembles him ; yet how in¬ 
comparably is the Apostle superior to Luther in 
insight, in courtesy, in humility, in dignity, in 
self-control ! As a missionary we might compare 
him to Xavier, as a practical organizer to St. 
Gregory, as a fervent lover of souls to Whitefield, 
and to many other saints of God in many of his 
endowments; but no saint of God has ever at¬ 
tained the same heights in so many capacities, or 
received the gifts of the Spirit in so rich an out¬ 
pouring, or borne in his mortal body such evident 
brand-marks of the Lord. In his lifetime he was 
no whit behind the very chiefest of the Apostles, 
and he towers above the very greatest of all the 
saints who have since striven to follow the exam¬ 
ple of his devotion to the Lord. 







CHARLES HADDOxN SPURGEON. 

ENGLAND’S GREATEST PREACHER. 

HE life of Charles Haddon Spurgeon extended through the fifty- 
eight years from 1834 to 1892. During this comparatively short 
lifetime he built up the most remarkable congregation that ever 
united under one pastor; collected the money by which this con¬ 
gregation was housed in the Metropolitan Tabernacle, which has 
been one of • the sights of London for more than thirty years; 
brought about the reclamation of a large district, including “some 
of the worst, most degraded, and most dangerous spots in London”; published 
more than two thousand sermons, edited a monthly magazine, and wrote books 
which, including the magazine, number nearly a hundred volumes. Besides all 
this, his work as an organizer of important enterprises for the spread of religion 
w’OLild have seemed to be sufficient for one man, however great his energy and 
ability. He was the originator and active head of a pastors’ college, which, in 
1890, had sent out nearly a thousand preachers and missionaries; he founded an 
orphanage which cares for five hundred children, and administered a group of 
almshouses for the aged poor in wdiich there is also provision for a school of four 
hundred children of the Imvest class; his Colportage Association employs fifty 
men in the distribution of religious books; the Tabernacle Building Fund loans 
money without interest to assist in the erection of churches ; a Book Fund supplies 
needy ministers with literature; a Church Poor Fund gives away the sum of five 
thousand dollars annually, and there are some twenty-five or thirty missions con¬ 
nected wdth the Tabernacle. 

Mr. Spurgeon was a native of Kelvedon, in England, and both his father and 
grandfather w^ere ministers. He was educated at Colchester and Maidstone, and 
at the age of sixteen became usher in a school at Newmarket. He soon joined 
the Baptist Church, and before he w’as eighteen was pastor of a little church at 
Waterbeach, a village five miles from Cambridge. At nineteen he was called to 
the New Park Street Church, in Southwark, London, which W'as the scene of his 
future labors until the erection of the great Metropolitan Tabernacle at Newing¬ 
ton, which was completed in 1861. This great edifice quite readily accommodated 
six thousand persons in the auditorium, and provided a proportionate space for the 
school-rooms, etc. 

Mr. Spurgeon’s preaching was characterized by the greatest earnestness, and 

145 



10 



















146 


CHARLES HADDON SPURGEON. 


was absolutely free from conventionality. He possessed a wonderful voice, and 
sometimes spoke without inconvenience to audiences of twelve thousand persons, 
and on at least one occasion to twenty thousand. The popularity of his published 
sermons has given him an audience far outnumbering that of any other English 
preacher, and extended his influence throughout the English-speaking world. His 
noble Christian spirit and his devotion to the spread of religion and of practical 
philanthropy gave him a high place among the greatest spirits of his time, and 
an influence hardly second to that of any religious teacher of the century. 



THE FIRST CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

From a Sermon on the Text “Glory to God in the Highest, and on Earth Peace, Good Will 

Toward Men,” Luke II, 14. 


B EXT, I have to present to you some ono- 
tional thoughts. Friends, doth not this 
verse, this song of angels, stir your hearts 
with happiness? When I read that, and found 
the angels singing it, I thought to myself, “Then 
if the angels ushered in the gospel’s great Head 
with singing, ought I not to preach with singing? 
And ought not my hearers to live with singing ? 
Ought not their hearts to be glad and their spirits 
to rejoice?” Well, thought I, there be some 
somber religionists who were born in a dark night 
in December that think a smile upon the face is 
wicked, and believe that for a Christian to be 
glad and rejoice is to be inconsistent. Ah ! I 
wish these gentlemen had seen the angels when 
they sang about Christ; for if angels sang about 
His birth, though it was no concern of theirs, 
certainly men ought to sing about it as long as 
they live, sing about it when they die, and sing 
about it when they live in heaven forever. I do 
long to see in the midst of the Church more of a 
singing Christianity. The last few years have 
been breeding in our midst a groaning and unbe¬ 
lieving Christianity. Now, I doubt not its sin¬ 
cerity, but I do doubt its healthy character. I 
say it may be true and real enough; God forbid 
I should say a word against the sincerity of those 
who practise it; but it is a sickly religion. 

Watts hit the mark when he said : 

“ Religion never was designed 
To make our pleasures less.” 


It is designed to do away with some of our pleas¬ 
ures, but it gives us many more, to make up for 
what it takes away; so it does not make them 
less. O ye that see in Christ nothing but a sub¬ 
ject to stimulate your doubts and make the tears 
run down your cheeks ; O ye that always say, 

“ Lord, what a wretched land is this. 

That yields us no supplies,” 

come ye hither and see the angels. Do they tell 
their story with groans, and sobs, and sighs ? Ah, 
no; they shout aloud, “Glory to God in the 
highest.” Now, imitate them, my dear brethren. 
If you are professors of religion, try always to 
have a cheerful carriage. Let others mourn ; but 

“ Why should the children of a king 
Go mourning all their days ? ” 

Anoint your head and wash your face; appear 
not unto men to fast. Rejoice in the Lord al¬ 
ways, and again I say unto you rejoice. Specially 
this week be not ashamed to be glad. You need 
not think it a wicked thing to be happy. Pen¬ 
ance and whipping and misery are no such very 
virtuous things, after all. The damned are mis¬ 
erable; let the saved be happy. Why should 
you hold fellowship with the lost by feelings of 
perpetual mourning? Why not rather anticipate 
the joys of heaven, and begin to sing on earth 
that song which you will never need to end? 
The first emotion then that we ought to cherish in 
our hearts is the emotion of joy and gladness. 







CHARLES HADDON SPURGEON. 


147 


Well, what next ? Another emotion is that of 
confidence. I am not sure that I am right in call¬ 
ing that an emotion, but still in me it is so much 
akin to it that I will venture to be wrong if 1 be 
so. When these angels came from heaven they 
told the news just as if they believed it; and 
though I have often wickedly doubted my Lord’s 
good will, I think I never could have doubted it 
while I heard those angels singing. No; I should 
say, “ The messengers themselves are proof of the 
truth, for it seems they have heard it from God’s 
lips; they have no doubt about it, for see how 
joyously they tell the news.” Now, poor soul, 
thou that art afraid lest God should destroy thee, 
and thou that thinkest God will never have mercy 
upon thee, look at the singing angels and doubt if 
thou darest. Do not go to the synagogue of long¬ 
faced hypocrites to hear the minister who preaches 
with a nasal twang, with misery in his face, whilst 
he tells you that God has good will toyard men ; 
I know you won’t believe what he says, for he 
does not preach with joy in his countenance; he 
is telling you good news with a grunt, and you 
are not likely to receive it. But go straightway 
to the plain where Bethlehem shepherds sat by 
night, and when you hear the angels singing out 
the gospel, by the grace of God upon you, you 
can not hel]) believing that they manifestly feel 
the preciousness of telling. Blessed Christmas, 
that brings such creatures as angels to confirm our 
faith in God’s good will to men ! 

I must now bring before you the third point. 
There are some prophetic utterances contained in 
these words. The angels sang “ Glory to God in 
the highest, on earth peace, good will toward 
men.” A few more years, and he that lives them 


out shall see why angels sang ; a few more years, 
and He that will come shall come, and will not 
tarry. Christ the Lord will come again, and 
when He cometh He shall cast the idols from 
their thrones; He shall da.sh down every fashion 
of heresy and every shape of idolatry ; He shall 
reign from pole to pole with illimitable sway : He 
shall reign, when, like a scroll, yon blue heavens 
have passed away. No strife shall vex Messiah’s 
reign, no blood shall then be shed ; they’ll hang 
the useless helmet high, and study war no more. 
The hour is approaching when the temple of 
Janus shall be shut forever, and when cruel Mars 
shall be hooted from the earth. The day is com¬ 
ing when the lion shall eat straw like the ox, when 
the leopard shall lie down with the kid ; when the 
weaned child shall put his hand upon the cocka¬ 
trice den and play with the asp. The hour ap- 
])roacheth ; the first streaks of the sunlight have 
made glad the age in which we live. Lo, He 
comes, with trumpets and with clouds of glory; 
He shall come for whom we look with joyous ex> 
pectation, whose coming shall be glory to His re¬ 
deemed, and confusion to His enemies. Ah! 
brethren, when the angels sang this there was an 
echo through the long aisles of a glorious future. 
That echo was : 

“ Hallelujah ! Christ the Lord 
God Omnipotent shall reign.’' 

Ay, and doubtless the angels heard by faith the 
fulness of the song : 

“ Hark! the song of jubilee 
Loud as mighty thunder’s roar, 

Or the fulness of the seaj; 

When it breaks upon the shore.” 

“ Christ the Lord Omnipotent reigneth.” 



I 

vC 


A- 






DR. JOHN WATSON. 

“IAN MACLAREN.” 

T is very rarely indeed that a man nearly forty-three years old, 
absorbed in the labors of an arduous profession in which he has 
achieved distinction, comes suddenly into world-wide fame in an 
entirely different field. The publication of the sketches grouped 
together under the title “ Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush” brought 
to Dr. Watson the fame of a master of literary art. His skill as 
a delineator of character, his wonderful power of penetrating the 
interior of the shell with which men surround their inner selves, the delicacy of 
his intuitions, no less than the inherent interest of his Subjects and his skill in 
selecting them, have given Dr. Watson a place in the affections of his readers 
probably not possessed by any other living author. 

John Watson was the only child of Scottish parents, being born in England 
during their temporary residence in that country. His mother’s maiden name, 
iMaclaren, and the gaelic form ot his name, John, give us his pen name, “Ian 
Maclaren.” His boyhood home was in the Scottish town of Perth. His school 
and college vacations were largely spent at farm-houses in Scotland, among his 
maternal relatives, and in those summer weeks of unfettered country life he gath¬ 
ered wonderful knowledge of Scottish peasants, of “roups” and “tacks,” of 
“horses, pleughs, an’d kye.” His parents removed to Stirling, and later made their 
last home in Edinburgh, where John was in the university. Among his fellow- 
students were? Robert Louis Stevenson and Henry Drummond, and of the three 
Watson seems to have been the closest and most faithful student. In 1870 he 
entered upon the study of theology at Edinburgh, and spent one or two of his long 
vacations at Wiirtemberg. Even in these days Mr. Watson excelled in the social 
accomplishment of story-telling, and no one could equal him in the power of pro¬ 
ducing humorous caricatures of his classmates, or even of his professors. At the 
close of his student career, and after serving for a few months as assistant in a 
large and influential congregation in Edinburgh, he surprised his friends by accept¬ 
ing a call to be minister of the Free Church of Logiealmond in Perthshire. In 
this secluded place, where, for a population of less than six hundred, there were 
three Presbyterian churches, representing the Established Church, the Free Church, 
and the United Presbyterian, he devoted himself to the service of his congregation, 
which numbered less than one hundred communicants. They were humble people, 
laboring-men, just as he has described them in the “ Bonnie Brier Bush,” and he 

148 























DR. JOHN WATSON. 


149 


was quickly in touch with all their life. His knowledge of crops and cattle and 
markets won their sympathy and respect even before his learning and power as a 
preacher and his devotion to the work of a pastor secured their affections. Here 
he labored until 1877, when he became the colleague of Doctor Samuel Miller in 
St. Matthew’s Church in Glasgow. The religious atmosphere in this old Scotch 
city was not, however, congenial to Mr. Watson. Its thought was too narrow, its 
sympathies too contracted, and it was, therefore, a relief, both to himself and his 
• friends, when he was called to the leading Presbyterian church in Liverpool, where 
he soon built up a reputation as a preacher of unusual power, and where he has 
since remained. 

It was in 1893 that Dr. Robertson Nicholl induced him to send a sketch or two 
to the British Weekly. The “Lad of Pairts ” convinced everybody that either 
J. M. Barrie was writing in a new vein or that Ian Maclaren was another Scotch 
writer of equal gifts. The sketches were promptly gathered together into the vol¬ 
ume “Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush,” and “The Days of Auld Lang Syne” soon 
followed. “The Mind of the Master” is his best-known book of sermons, and he 
has written one novel, entitled “ Kate Carnegie,” which well maintained his repu¬ 
tation. 

The degree of Doctor of Divinity was conferred upon Mr. Watson by the 
University of St. Andrews in 1896, and in the autumn of that year he paid a visit 
to America (to deliver a course of lectures in one of the theological seminaries), 
and was everywhere received with the greatest enthusiasm. He delivered lectures 
and read from his books in the principal eastern cities, and frequently occupied the 
pulpits in Presbyterian and other churches, receiving more than one flattering invi¬ 
tation to take up a permanent residence in America. His return to the Sefton 
Park Church in Liverpool was greeted with a display of affection which must 
have touched his heart, and he announced to his congregation his intention 
to remain with them. Soon after his return a charge of heresy was brought 
against him ; but it is pleasant to know that it was dismissed almost without 
consideration by the church authorities. 





IN MARGET’S GARDEN. 

From “ Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush.” 


'HE cart track to Whinnie Knovve was com¬ 
manded by a gable window', and Whinnie 
boasted that Marget had never been taken 
unawares. Tramps, finding every door locked, 
and no sign of life anywhere, used to express their 
minds in the “close,” and return by the way 
they came, while ladies from Kildrummie, fearful 
lest they should put Mrs. Howe out, were met at 


the garden gate by Marget in her Sabbath dress, 
and brought in to a set tea as if they had been 
invited weeks before. 

Whinnie gloried most in the discomfiture of the 
Tory agent, who had vainly hoped to coerce him 
in the stackyard without Marget’s presence, as 
her intellectual contempt for the Conservative 
party knew no bounds. 








150 


DK. JOHN WATSON. 


“Sail, she saw him slip aff the road afore the 
last stile, and wheep roond the fit o’ the gairden 
wa’ like a tod (fox) aifter the chickens. 

“ ‘ It’s a het day, Maister Anderson,’ says Mar- 
get frae the gairden, lookin’ doon on him as calm 
as ye like. ‘ Yir surely nae gaein’ to pass oor 
hoose without a gless o’ milk ? ’ 

“ Wud ye believe it, he wes that upset he left 
withoot sayin’ ‘vote,’ and Drumsheugh telt me 
next market that his langidge aifterwards cudna be 
printed.” 

When George came home for the last time, 
Marget went back and forward all afternoon from 
his bedroom to the window, and hid herself be¬ 
neath the laburnum to see his face as the cart 
stood before the stile. It told her plain what she 
had feared, and Marget passed through her Geth- 
semane with the gold blossoms falling on her face. 
When their eyes met, and before she helped him 
down, mother and son understood. 

“Ye mind what I told ye o’ the Greek mothers 
the day I left? Weel, I wud hae liked to have 
carried my shield, but it wasnato be, so I’ve come 
home on it.” As they went slowly up the garden 
walk : “I’ve got my degree, a double first, mathe¬ 
matics and classics.” 

“Ye’ve been a gude soldier, George, and 
faithfu’.” 

“Unto death, a’m dootin’, mother.” 

“Na,” said Marget, “unto life.” 

Drumtochty was not a heartening place in sick¬ 
ness, and Marget, who did not think our thoughts, 
endured much consolation at her neighbors’ hands. 
It is said that in cities visitors congratulate a 
patient on his good looks, and deluge his family 
with instances of recovery. This would have 
seemed to us shallow and unfeeling, besides being 
a “temptin’ o’ Providence,” which might not 
have intended to go to extremities, but on a chal¬ 
lenge of this kind had no alternative. Sickness 
was regarded as a distinction tempered with judg¬ 
ment, and favored people found it difficult to be 
humble. I always thought more of Peter McIn¬ 
tosh when the mysterious “ tribble ” that needed 
the Perth doctor made no difference in his 
manner, and he passed his snuff-box across the 
seat before the long prayer as usual; but in 


this indifference to privileges Peter was excep¬ 
tional. 

You could never meet Kirsty Stewart on equal 
terms, although she was quite affable to any one 
who knew his place. 

“Ay,” she said, on my respectful allusion to 
her experience, “a’ve seen mair than most. It 
doesna become me to boast, but tho’ I say it as 
sudna, I hae buried a’ my ain fouk.” 

Kirsty had a “way ” in sick visiting, consisting 
in a certain cadence of the voice and arrangement 
of the face, which was felt to be soothing and 
complimentary. 

“ Yir aboot again, a’m glad to see,” to me after 
my accident, “ but yir no dune wi’ that leg; na, 
na. Jeems, that was ma second man, scrapit his 
shin aince, tho’ no so bad as ye’ve dune, a’m 
hearing (for I had denied Kirsty the courtesy of 
an inspection). It’s sax year syne noo, and he 
got up and wes traivellin’ fell hearty like yersel’. 
But he begoon to dwam (sicken) in the end of the 
year, and soughed awa’ in the spring. Ay, ay, 
when tribble comes ye never ken hoo it’ll end. 
A’ thoucht I wud come up and speir for ye. A 
body needs comfort gin he’s sober (ill).” 

When I found George wrapped in his plaid be¬ 
side the brier bush, whose roses were no whiter 
than his cheeks, Kirsty was already installed as 
comforter in the parlor, and her drone came 
through the open window. 

“ Ay, ay, Marget, sae it’s come to this. Weel, 
we daurna complain, ye ken. Be thankfu’ ye 
haena lost your man and five sons besides twa 
sisters and a brither, no to mention cousins. 
That wud be something to speak aboot, and Losh 
keep’s, there’s nae saying but he micht hang on a 
whilie. Ay, ay, it’s a sair blow aifter a’ that wes 
in the papers. I wes feared when I heard o’ the 
papers; ‘ Lat weel alane,’ says I to the dominie; 
‘ye ’ill bring a judgment on the laddie wi’ yir 
blawing.’ But ye micht as weel hae spoken to 
the hills. Domsie’s a thraun body at the best, 
and he was clean infatuat’ wi’ George. Ay, ay, 
it’s an awfu’ lesson, Marget, no to mak’ idols o’ 
our bairns, for that’s naethin’ else than provokin’ 
the Almichty.” 

It was at this point that Marget gave way and 



DR. JOHN WATSON. 


scandalized Drumtochty, which held that obtrusive 
prosperity was an irresistible provocation to the 
higher powers, and that a skilful depreciation of 
our children was a policy of safety. 

“Did ye say the Almichty? I’m thinkin’ 
that’s ower grand a name for your God, Kirsty. 
What wud ye think o’ a faither that brocht hame 
some bonnie thing frae the fair for ane o’ his 
bairns, and when the puir bairn wes pleased wi’ it 
tore it oot o’ his hand and flung it into the fire? 
Eh, wumman, he wud be a meeserable, cankered, 
jealous body. Kirsty, wumman, when the Al¬ 
michty sees a mither bound up in her laddie, I 
tell ye He is sair pleased in His heaven, for mind 
ye hoo He loved His ain Son. Besides, a’m 
judgin’ that nane o’ us can love anither withoot 
lovin’ Him, or hurt anither withoot hurtin’ 
Him. > 

“Oh, I ken weel that George is gaein’ to leave 
us; but it’s no because the Almichty is jealous o’ 
him or me, no likely. It cam’ to me last nicht 
that He needs my laddie for some grand wark in 
the ither world, and that’s hoo George has his 
bukes brocht oot tae the garden and studies a’ the 
day. He wants to be ready for his kingdom, just 
as he trachled in the bit schule o’ Drumtochty for 
Edinboro’. I hoped he wud hae been a minister 
o’ Christ’s Gospel here, but he ’ill be judge over 
many cities yonder. A’m no denyin’, Kirsty, 
that it’s a trial, but I hae licht on it, and naethin’ 
but glide thochts o’ the Almichty.” 

Drumtochty understood that Kirsty had dealt 
faithfully with Marget for pride and presumption; 
but all we heard was, “ Losh keep us a’.” 

When Marget came out and sat down beside 
her son, her face was shining. Then she saw the 
open window. 

“ I didna ken.” 

“ Never mind, mither, there’s nae secrets 
atween us, and it gar’d my heart leap to hear ye 
speak up like yon for God. Div ye mind the 
nicht I called for ye, mother, and ye gave me the 
Gospel aboot God ? ” 

Marget slipped her hand into George’s, and he 
let his head rest on her shoulder. The likeness 
flashed upon me in that moment, the earnest, deep- 
set gray eyes, the clean-cut, firm jaw, and the ten¬ 


151 

der, mobile lips, that blend of apparent austerity 
and underlying romance that make the pathos of 
a Scottish face. 

“ There had been a revival man here,” George 
explained to me, “ and he was preaching on hell. 
As it grew dark a candle was lighted, and I can 
still see his face as in a picture, a hard-visaged 
man. He looked down at us laddies in the front 
and asked us if we knew what-like hell was. By 
this time we were that terrified none of us could 
speak, but I whispered ‘No.’ 

“ Then he rolled up a piece of paper and held 
it in the flame, and we saw it burn and glow and 
shrivel up and fall in black dust. 

“ ‘ Think,’ said he, and he leaned over the desk, 
and spoke in a gruesome whisper which made the 
cold run down our backs, ‘ that yon taper was 
your finger, one finger only of your hand, and it 
burned like that forever and ever, and think of 
your hand and your arm and your whole body all 
on fire, never to go out.’ We shuddered that you 
might have heard the form creak. ‘ That is hell, 
and that is where ony laddie will go who does not 
repent and believe.’ 

“ It was like Dante’s Inferno, and I dared not 
take my eyes off his face. He blew out the can¬ 
dle, and we crept to the door trembling, not able 
to say one word. 

“That night I could not sleep, for I thought I 
might be in the fire before morning. It was har¬ 
vest time, and the moon was filling the room with 
cold clear light. From my bed I could see the 
stooks standing in rows upon the field, and it 
seemed like the judgment day. 

“ I was only a wee laddie, and I did what we 
all do in trouble, I cried for my mother. 

“ Ye hae no forgotten, mither, the fricht that 
was on me that nicht ? ” 

“Never,” said Marget, “and never can; it’s 
hard wark for me to keep frae hating that man, 
dead or alive. Geordie gripped me wi’ baith his 
wee airms round my neck, and he cries over and 
over and over again, ‘ Is yon God ? ’ 

“Ay, and ye kissed me, mither, and ye said 
(it’s like yesterday), ‘ Yir safe with me,’ and ye 
telt me that God micht punish me to mak me bet¬ 
ter if I was bad, but that He wud never torture 




152 


DR. JOHN WATSON. 


ony puir soul, for that cud dae nae guid, and was 
the devil’s wark. Ye asked me : 

“ ‘Am I a guid mother tae ye?’ and when I 
could dae naethin’ but hold, ye said, ‘ Be sure 
God maun be a hantle kinder.’ 

“ The truth came to me as with a flicker, and I 
cuddled down into my bed, and fell asleep in His 
love, as in my mother’s arms. 

“ Mither,” and George lifted up his head, 
“that was my conversion, and, mither dear, I 
hae longed a’ thro’ the college studies for the day 
when ma moothwud be opened wi’ this evangel.” 

Marget’s was an old-fashioned garden, with 
pinks and daisies and forget-me-nots, with sweet- 
scented wall-flower and thyme and moss roses, 
where nature had her way, and gracious thoughts 
could visit one without any jarring note. As 
George’s voice softened to the close, I caught her 
saying : “ His servants shall see His face,” and 

the peace of Paradise fell upon us in the shadow 
of death. 

The night before the end George was carried 
out to his corner, and Domsie, whose heart was 
nigh unto the breaking, sat with him the after¬ 
noon. They used to fight the college battles over 
again, with their favorite classics beside them, but 
this time none of them spoke of books. Marget 
was moving about the garden, and she told me 
that George looked at Domsie wistfully, as if he 
had something to say and knew not how to do it. 

After awhile he took a book from below his pil¬ 
low, and began, like one thinking over his words; 

“ Maister Jamieson, ye hae been a gude freend 
tae me, the best I ever hed aifter my mither and 
faither. Wull ye tak this buik for a keepsake o’ 
yir grateful scholar? It’s a Latin ‘Imitation,’ 


dominie, and it’s bonnie printin’. Ye mind hoo 
ye gave me yir ain Virgil, and said he was a kind 
o’ Pagan sanct. Noo here is my sanct, and div 
ye ken I’ve often thocht Virgil saw his day afar 
off, and was glad. Wull ye read it, dominie, for 
my sake, and maybe ye’ll come to see—” and 
George could not find words for more. 

But Domsie understood. “ Ma laddie, ma lad¬ 
die, that I hive better than onythin’ on earth. I’ll 
read it till I die, and, George, I’ll tell ye what 
livin’ man does na ken. When I was your verra 
age I had a cruel trial, and ma heart was turned 
frae faith. The classics hae been my Bible, 
though I said naethin’ to ony man against Christ. 
He aye seemed beyond man, and noo the veesion 
o’ Him has come to me in this gairden. Laddie, 
ye hae dune far mair for me than I ever did for 
you. Wull ye mak a prayer for yir auld dominie 
afore we pairt ? ” 

There was a thrush singing in the birches and a 
sound of bees in the air, when George prayed in a 
low, soft voice, with a little break in it. 

“Lord Jesus, remember my dear maister, for 
he’s been a kind freend to me and mony a puir 
laddie in Drumtochty. Bind up his sair heart and 
give him licht at eventide, and may the maister 
and his scholars meet some morn in’ where the 
schule never skails, in the kingdom o’ oor 
Father.” 

Twice Domsie said Amen, and it seemed as the 
voice of another man, and then he kissed George 
upon the forehead ; but what they said Marget did 
not wish to hear. 

When he pa.ssed out at the garden gate, the 
westering sun was shining golden, and the face of 
Domsie was like unto that of a little child. 



-.00^ 





HENRY DRUMMOND. 



AUTHOR OF “NATURAL LAW IN THE SPIRITUAL WORLD.” 

ROFESSOR Drummond is one of die most widely known writers 
upon religious topics. “ For several years,” he says, “ it has been 
my privilege to address regularly two very different audiences on 
two very different themes. On week-days I have lectured to a 
class of students on the natural sciences, and on Sundays to an 
audience, consisting for the most part of working-men, on subjects 
of a moral and religious character. For a time I succeeded in 
keeping the science and the religion shut off from one another in two separate 
compartments of my mind. But gradually the wall of separation showed symptoms 
of giving way. The fountains of knowledge also slowly began to overflow, and 
finally their waters met and mingled, and I found the truth running out to my audi¬ 
ences on Sundays by the week-day outlets. In other words, the subject matter of 
reliUon had taken on the method of expression of science, and I discovered myself 
enimciating spiritual law in the exact terms of biology and physics.” The result 
of this change of thought and expression is manifest in his later works. This was 
first evident^in his great book, “ Natural Law in the Spiritual World,” which was 
more widely read, perhaps, than any other previous work of its kind. It has been 
translated into at least four European languages, and is as popular in America as 
abroad. 

“The Greatest Thing in the World” is an address delivered to the stu¬ 
dents at Northfield, Massachusetts, from the text “Love Never Faileth,” and 
attained a popularity different in kind but even more universal. An address called 
“ First,” delivered to the Boy’s Brigades in Glasgow, has been widely read, as has 
also “ Pax Vobiscum.” In 1894 he published “The Ascent of Man,” which has 
met with hostile criticism from certain scientists, but which has been very generally 
acceptable ; and his book on travels, “ Tropical Africa,” excels in simplicity and 
directness of statement, and describes the dark continent in a way which brings it 
more clearly before the mind of the reader than, perhaps, any other book among 
the many which have been written upon that topic. . . .^ 

His lecture tours in C3.n3.cl3., Austr 3 li 3 , 3 ncl the United St 3 tes, his scientific 
journeys to the Rocky Mountains and to South Africa, as well as his books, had 
brought him into intimate contact with very large numbers of people, and his 
popularity and influence showed no promise of decline when, early in 1897, the 

1 53 














154 


HENRY DRUMMOND. 


news of his death came as a shock to the English-speaking world. “ It could be 
said of him, as of the early Apostles, that ‘ men took knowledge of him, that 
he had been with Jesus.’ ” 

CONFORMITY TO TYPE. 

From “Natural Law in the Spiritual World.” 


F the botanist be asked the difference be¬ 
tween an oak, a palm tree, and a lichen, 
he will declare that they are separated from 
one another by the broadest line known to classi¬ 
fication. Without taking into account the outward 
differences of size and form, the variety of flower 
and fruit, the peculiarities of leaf and branch, he 
sees even in their general architecture types of 
structure as distinct as Norman, Gothic, and 
Egyptian. But if the first young germs of these 
three plants are placed before him, and he is 
called upon to define the difference, he finds it 
impossible. Pie can not even say which is which. 
Examined under the highest powers of the micro¬ 
scope, they yield no clue. Analyzed by the 
chemist, with all the appliances of his laboratory, 
they keep their secret. The same experiment 
can be tried with the embryos of animals. Take 
the ovule of the worm, the eagle, the elephant, 
and of man himself. Let the most skilled 
observer apply the most searching tests to dis¬ 
tinguish the one from the other, and he will fail. 
But there is something more surprising still. 
Compare the next two sets of germs—the vegeta¬ 
ble and the animal—and there is no shade of 
difference. Oak and palm, worm and man, all 
start in life together. No matter into what 
strangely different forms they may afterward de¬ 
velop—no matter whether they are to live on sea 
or land, creep or fly, swim or walk, think or 
vegetate—in the embryo, as it first meets the eye 
of Science, they are indistinguishable. The 
apple which fell in Newton’s garden, Newton’s 
dog Diamond, and Newton himself, began life at 
the same point. 

If we analyze this material point at which all 
life starts, we shall find it to consist of a clear. 


structureless, jelly-like substance resembling al¬ 
bumen, or white of egg. It is made of carbon, 
hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen: its name is 
Protoplasm. And it is not only the structural 
unit with which all living bodies start in life, but 
with which they are subsequently built up. 
“Protoplasm,” says PPuxley, “simple or nu¬ 
cleated, is the formal basis of all life : it is the 
clay of the potter. . . . Beast and fowl, 

reptile and fish, mollusk, worm, and polyp, are 
all composed of structural units of the same char¬ 
acter— namely, masses of protoplasm with a 
nucleus.” 

What, then, determines the difference between 
different animals? What makes one little speck 
of protoplasm grow into Newton’s dog Diamond, 
and another—exactly the same—into Newton 
himself? It is a mysterious Something which 
has entered into this protoplasm. No eye can 
see it ; no science can define it. There is a 
different Something for Newton’s dog, and a dif¬ 
ferent Something for Newton; so that though 
both use the same matter, they build up in these 
Avidely different ways. Protoplasm being the 
clay, this Something is the potter. And as there 
is only one clay, and yet all these curious forms 
are developed out of it, it follows that the differ¬ 
ence lies in the potters. There must, in short, be 
as many potters as there are forms. There is the 
potter who segments the worm, and the potter 
who builds up the form of the dog, and the 
potter who moulds the man. The artist who 
operates upon matter in this subtle way, and 
carries out this law, is Life. There are a great 
many different kinds of Life. If one might give 
the broader meaning to the words of the Apostle 
—“All life is not the same life. There is one 










HENRY DRUMMOND. 


155 


kind of life of men, another life of beasts, 
another of fishes, and another of birds”—there 
is the Life of the Artist, or the potter who seg¬ 
ments the worm, the potter who forms the dog, 
the potter who moulds the man. 

What goes on, then, in the animal kingdom is 
this : The Bird-life seizes upon the bird-germ, 
and builds it up into a bird, the image of itself. 
The Reptile-life seizes upon another germinal 
speck, assimilates surrounding matter, and fash¬ 
ions it into a reptile. The Reptile-life thus simply 
makes an incarnation of itself; the visible bird is 
simply an incarnation of the invisible Bird-life. 

Now we are nearing the point where the 
spiritual analogy appears. It is a very wonderful 
analogy—so wonderful that one almost hesitates 
to put it into words. Yet nature is reverent : 
and it is her voice to which we listen. These 
lower phenomena of life, she says, are but an 
allegory. Therh is another kind of Life of which 
Science as yet has taken little cognizance. It 
obeys the same laws. It builds up an organism 
into its own form. It is the Christ-life. As the 
Bird-life builds up a bird, the image of itself, so 
the Christ-life builds up a Christ, the image of 
Himself. When a man becomes a Christian, the 
natural process is this: The Living Christ enters 
into his soul. Development begins. The quick¬ 
ening Life seizes upon the soul, assimilates sur¬ 
rounding elements, and begins to fashion it. Ac¬ 
cording to the great Law of Conformity to Type 
this fashioning takes a specific form. It is that of 
the Artist who fashions. And all through Life 


this wonderful, mystical, glorious, yet perfectly 
definite process, goes on “ until Christ be formed ” 
in it. 

The Christian Life is not a vague effort after 
righteousness—an ill-defined pointless struggle for 
an ill-defined pointless end. Religion is no di¬ 
sheveled mass of aspiration, i)rayer, and faith. 
There is no more mystery in Religion, as to its 
processes, than in Biology. There is much mys¬ 
tery in Biology. We know all but nothing of 
Life yet—nothing of Development. There is the 
same mystery in the Spiritual Life. But the 
great lines are the same—as decided, as luminous; 
and the laws of Natural and Spiritual are the 
same—as unerring, as simple. Will everything 
else in the natural world unfold its order, and 
yield to Science more and more a vision of har¬ 
mony, and Religion—which should complement 
and perfect all—remain a chaos ? From the stand¬ 
point of Revelation no truth is more obscure than 
Conformity to Type. If science can furnish a 
companion phenomena from an every-day pro¬ 
cess of the natural life, it may at least throw this 
most mystical doctrine of Christianity into think¬ 
able form. Is there any fallacy in speaking of the 
Embryology of the New Life? Is the analogy 
invalid? Are there not vital processes in the 
Spiritual as well as in the Natural world ? The 
Bird being an incarnation of the Bird-life, may 
not the Christian be a spiritual incarnation of the 
Christ-life ? And is there not a real justification 
in the processes of the New-Birth for such a 
parallel ? 


--.o^o»- 


FOOTPATHS IN THE AFRICAN FOREST. 
From “Tropical Africa.” 


T may be a surprise to the unenlightened to 
learn that probably no explorer, in forcing 
his passage through Africa, has ever, for 
more than a few days at a time, been off some 
beaten track. Probably no country in the world, 
civilized or uncivilized, is better supplied with 
paths than this unmapped continent. Every vil¬ 
lage is connected with some other village, every 
tribe with the next tribe, every state with its 


neighbor, and therefore, with all the rest. The 
explorer’s business is simply to select from this 
network of tracks, keep a general direction, and 
hold on his way. Let him begin at Zanzibar, 
plant his foot on a native footpath, and set his 
face toward Tanganyika.. In eight months he will 
be there. He has simply to persevere. From 
village to village he will be handed on, zigzagging 
it may be sometimes, to avoid the impassable 







HENRY DRUMMOND. 


156 

barriers of nature, or the rarer perils of hostile 
tribes, but never taking to the woods, never 
guided solely by the stars, never, in fact, leaving 
a beaten track, till hundreds and hundreds of 
miles are between him and the sea, and his inter¬ 
minable footpath ends with a canoe on the 
shores of Tanganyika. Crossing the lake, landing 
near some native village, he picks up the thread 
once more. Again he plods on and on, now on 
foot, now by canoe, but always keeping his line 
of villages, until, one day, suddenly, he sniffs the 
Seabreeze again, and his faithful foot-wide guide 
lands him on the Atlantic seaboard. 

Nor is there any art in finding out these suc¬ 
cessive villages with their intercommunicating 
links. He must find them out. A whole army 
of guides, servants, carriers, soldiers, and camp- 
followers accompany him in his march, and this 
nondescript regiment must be fed. Indian corn, 
cassava, mawere, beans, and bananas—these do 
not grow wild even in Africa. Every meal has to 
be bought and paid for in cloth and beads; and 
scarcely three days can pass without a call having 
to be made at some village where the necessary 
supplies can be obtained. A caravan, as a rule, 
must live from hand to mouth, and its march be¬ 
comes simply a regulated procession through a 
chain of markets—there are neither bazaars nor 
stores in native Africa. Thousands of the villages 
through which the traveler eats his way may never 
have victualed a caravan before. But, with their 
chief’s consent, which is usually easily purchased 
for a showy present, the villagers unlock their 
larders, the women flock to the grinding stones, 
and basketfuls of food are swiftly exchanged for 
unknown equivalents in beads and calico. 

The native tracks are veritable footpaths, never 
over a foot in breadth, beaten as hard as adamant, 
and rutted beneath the level of the forest bed by 
centuries of native traffic. As a rule, these 
footpaths are marvelously direct. Like the roads 
of the old Romans, they run straight on through j 
everything, ridge and mountain and valley, never ' 


shying at obstacles, nor anywhere turning aside to 
breathe. Yet within this general straightforward¬ 
ness there is a singular eccentricity and indirect¬ 
ness in detail. Although the African footpath is 
on the whole a bee-line, no fifty yards of it are 
ever straight. And the reason is not far to seek. 
If a stone is encountered no native will ever 
think of removing it. Why should he? It is 
easier to walk round it. The next man who 
comes that way will do the same. He knows that 
a hunded men are following him ; he looks at the 
stone ; a moment, and it might be unearthed and 
tossed aside, but no; he also holds on his way. It 
is not that he resents the trouble, it is the idea that 
is wanting. It would no more occur to him that 
the stone was a displaceable object, and that for 
the general weal he might displace it, than that its 
feldspar was of the orthoclase variety. Generations 
and generations of men have passed that stone, and 
it still waits for a man with an altruistic idea. But 
it would be a very stony country indeed—and 
Africa is far from stony—that would wholly ac¬ 
count for the aggravating obliqueness and inde¬ 
cision of the African footpath. Probably each 
four miles, on an average path, is spun out, by an 
infinite series of minor sinuosities, to five or six. 
Now these deflections are not meaningless. Each 
has some history—a history dating back perhaps 
a thousand years, but to which all clue has cen¬ 
turies ago been lost. The leading cause probably 
is fallen trees. When a tree falls across a path no 
man ever removes it. As in the case of the 
stone, the native goes around it. It is too green 
to burn in his hut; before it is dry, and the white 
ants have eaten it, the new detour has become 
part and parcel of the path. The smaller irregu¬ 
larities, on the other hand, represent the trees 
and stumps of the primeval forest where the track 
was made at first. But whatever the cause, it is 
certain that for persistent straightforwardness in 
the general, and utter vacillation and irresolution 
j in the particular, the African roads are unique in 
' engineering. 






DANIEL DEFOE. 

THE FOUNDER OE THE ENGLISH NOVEL. 

LTHOUGH the fame of Defoe now rests upon a single work, which 
is known as the favorite of every enterprising boy who can read 
the English language, Defoe’s labors extended over the field of 
politics as well as that of literature. He wrote a number of works 
of fiction, two or three of which pretend to be circumstantial ac¬ 
counts of historical occurrences. Thus, his “Journal of the Great 
Plague in London ” tells the story of that horrible experience with 
so much detail and apparent faithfulness to truth that it would impose upon any 
person who was not definitely informed of its fictitious character. Another experi¬ 
ment of this sort is “ True Relation of the Apparition of a One Mrs. Veal,” which 
so completely imposed upon the public mind that searching inquiries were insti¬ 
tuted to determine its truth, and yet his one object in telling the story was to ob¬ 
tain a market for an otherwise dull and unsalable book, and by this means the 
whole edition of “ Drelincourt in Debt” was successfully disposed of. But it was 
as a political writer that Defoe was most famous in his own time, and in 1702 he 
published a pamphlet called “The Shortest Way with the Dissenters,” in which he 
stated the sentiments of the extreme High-church Englishmen with brutal can¬ 
dor, proposing to hang the Dissenting ministers and banish the people. When the 
House of Commons pronounced the pamphlet a libel, and sentenced him to the 
pillory, he coolly wrote his “ Ode to the Pillory,” describing it as— 

“The Hieroglyphic state machine, 

Condemned to punish fancy in.’’ 

“The True-born Englishman,” a poem defending William of Orange against 
the prejudices of the English public, was so popular that eighty thousand copies 
were sold in the streets of London. During his long imprisonment on account of 
“The Shortest Way with the Dissenters,” he used his time by writing a number of 
books. After his release he was taken into the service of the government, and 
received a pension. He energetically promoted the union of England and Scot¬ 
land, living in Edinburgh for several years for this purpose, where his unpopularity 
wa.s so great that his life was really in danger. The large number of his political 
tracts are now of no interest, and he will continue to be known as the immortal 
author of “ Robinson Crusoe.” This delightful book is one of the few that some- 

157 



























DANIEL DEFOE, 


158 



how seem to have embodied an essential element of interest. The second part is 
quite inferior, being merely an attempt to reap a harvest from the great popularity 
of the first, but of this, a very large majority of English-speaking people will say 
with Dr. Johnson, that “Nobody ever laid it down without wishing it were longer.” 

It was published in i 719, 
and was so extraordin¬ 
arily successful that De¬ 
foe was induced to write 
numerous other stories 
of a somewhat similar 
character. He was, in 
all, the author of two 
hundred and ten books 
and pamphlets. His 
style is admirably sim¬ 
ple and his English 
pure and unpretend¬ 
ing. He was the in¬ 
ventor of the leading 
article, or the news¬ 
letter of weekly com¬ 
ment on current affairs, 
and possessed quite a 
modern instinct in the 
art of advertising. 
When the infamous 
Jack Sheppard was con¬ 
demned, Defoe wrote 
his “ Life,” and induced 
the highwayman, stand¬ 
ing under the gallows, 
to send for a copy and 
deliver it as his last 
speech and dying con¬ 
fession. 

Defoe was the son 
of a London butcher. 
His name was origi¬ 
nally Foe, and it was not until about his fortieth year that he changed his signature 
from D. Foe to Defoe. He was educated for a minister, but decided not to enter 
that profession, and was at two periods of his life unsuccessfully engaged in busi¬ 
ness. He died in 1731, at the age of seventy. 


The Footprint in the Sand. 































DANIEL DEFOE. 


159 


ROBINSON CRUSOE DISCOVERS THE FOOTPRINT. 


m r happened one day about noon, going 
toward my boat, I was exceedingly sur¬ 
prised with the print of a man’s naked 
foot on the shore, which was very plain to be seen 
in the sand : I stood like one thunder-struck, or 
as if I had seen an apparition : I listened, I 
looked round me, I could hear nothing, nor see 
anything ; I went up to a rising ground to look 
farther; I went up the shore, and down the shore, 
but it was all one, I could see no other impression 
but that one: I went to it again to see if there 
were any more, and to observe if it might not be 
my fancy; but there was no room for that, for 
there was exactly the very print of a foot—toes, 
heel, and every part of a foot. How it came 
thither I knew not, nor could in the least imagine. 
But after innumerable fluttering thoughts, like a 
man perfectly confused, and out of myself, I came 
home to my fortification, not feeling, as we say, 
the ground. I went on, but terrified to the last 
degree, looking behind me at every two or three 
steps, mistaking every bush and tree, and fancy¬ 
ing every stump at a distance to be a man ; nor is 
it possible to describe how many various shapes an 
affrighted imagination represented things to me 
in; how many wild ideas were formed every 
moment in my fancy, and what strange, unac¬ 
countable whimsies came into my thoughts by the 
way. 

When I came to my castle, for so I think I 
called it ever after this, I fled into it like one pur¬ 
sued ; whether I went over by the ladder, at first 
contrived, or went in at the hole in the rock, 
which I called a door, I can not remember; 
for never frighted hare fled to cover, or fox to 
earth, with more terror of mind than I to this 
retreat. 

How strange a chequer-work of Providence is 
the life of man ! And by what secret differing 
springs are the affections hurried about, as differ¬ 
ing circumstances present! To-day we love what 
to-morrow we hate; to-day we seek what to-mor¬ 
row we shun ; to-day we desire what fo-morrow 


we fear—nay, even tremble at the apprehension 
of. This was exemplified in me at this time in 
the most lively manner imaginable: for I, whose 
only affliction was that I seemed banished from 
human society ; that I was alone, circumscribed 
by the boundless ocean, cut off from mankind, 
and condemned to what I call a silent life; that 
I was as one whom Heaven thought not worthy to 
be numbered among the living, or to appear among 
the rest of his creatures ; that to have seen one of 
my own species would have seemed to me a rais¬ 
ing me from death to life, and the greatest bless¬ 
ing that Heaven itself, next to the supreme blessing 
of salvation, could bestow ; I say, that I should 
now tremble at the very apprehension of seeing a 
man, and was ready to sink into the ground at 
but the shadow or silent appearance of a man’s 
having set his foot on the island ! 

Such is the uneven state of human life; and it 
afforded me a great many curious speculations 
afterward, when I had a little recovered my first 
surprise. I considered that this was the station 
of life the infinitely wise and good providence of 
God had determined for me ; that as I could not 
foresee what the ends of divine wisdom might be 
in all this, so I was not to dispute his sove¬ 
reignty, who, as I was his creature, had an un¬ 
doubted right by creation to govern and dispose 
of me absolutely as he thought fit; and who, as I 
was a creature who had offended him, had like¬ 
wise a judicial right to condemn me to what pun¬ 
ishment he thought fit; and that it was my part 
to submit to bear his indignation, because I had 
sinned against him. 

I then reflected that God, who was not only 
righteous, but omnipotent, as he had thought fit 
thus to punish and afflict me, so he was able to 
deliver me; that if he did not think fit to do it, 
it was my unquestioned duty to resign myself 
absolutely and entirely to his will: and, on the 
other hand, it was my duty also to hope in him, 
pray to him, and quietly to attend the dictates 
and directions of his daily providence. 






POET, NOVELIST, AND HISTORIAN. 


ALTER SCOTT was a born teller of stories. It mattered very 
little whether he was talking to his delighted mates in. the Edin¬ 
burgh High School, or writing “The Lady of the Lake,” or 
“W’averly,” or “'Fhe Life of Napoleon,” still he was simply telling 
stories for the pleasure of audiences which went on increasing more 
and more, until he became the writer of English most universally 
read, a distinction which he now probably shares only with Dickens. 
Scott was born in Edinburgh in 1771. His father was a man of standing as an 
attorney, and after studying at the High School the son entered the father’s 
office as a clerk, and was called to the bar in i 792. He was a sturdy boy, of great 
strength and endurance, particularly as a pedestrian, although an accident had 
made him lame from childhood. When he was eighteen years old he became 
sheriff of Selkirkshire, which office yielded him an income of .2^300 a year. 

He was married in 1797 to Miss Margaret Carpenter, the daughter of a 
French refugee, and the story of their early married life in their cottage at Lass- 
wade, on the banks of the Esk, is a delightful picture of domestic happiness. In 
1802 he published “The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border,” which gave him con¬ 
siderable reputation as a historical poet. In 1803 he came to the final resolution of 
quitting his profession, observing, “There was no great love between us at the 
beginning, and it pleased Heaven to decrease it on further acquaintance.” In 1805 
he published “The Lay of the Last Minstrel,” which was composed at the rate of a 
canto a week, and for which he obtained ^600. In 1808 appeared his “ Mar- 
mion,” which he sold for ^Fiooo, the extraordinary success of which induced him, 
he says, for the first and last time of his life, to feel something approaching to 
vanity. This was succeeded by an edition of Dryden’s works, in eighteen volumes, 
with notes historical and explanatory, and a life of the author. In 1810 he com¬ 
posed his “ Lady of the Lake,” which was a great success, and which has 

160 




































SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


l6l 


been characterized by some as the finest specimen of his poetical genius. Within 
four years after this appeared his “Vision of Don Roderick.” “ Rokeby,” and “ The 
Lord of the Isles.” 

The fame of Byron now seemed likely to overshadow Scott, and his last poems 
failed, perhaps deservedly, to win the popularity of his earlier ones. He therefore 
began writing in prose, and published his story of “ Waverly ” without attaching 
his name. The novel was instantly successful, and for some years he continued to 
write anonymously, and the question of the identity of the “Great Unknown ” was 
eagerly discussed in every literary circle. Following “Waverly,” came in rapid 
succession “Guy Mannering,” “The Antiquary,” “The Black Dwarf,” “Old 
Mortality,” “ Heart of Midlothian,” etc., about thirty novels in all. They are 



St'oTT’s Study at Abkotsford. 


mainly historical, and give a very correct picture of the times they represent. 
“The Monastery” and “The Abbot” are concerning Mary Queen of Scots; 
“ Kenilworth” gives a fair picture of Elizabeth’s times ; “The Fortunes of Nigel” 
gives the reign of James I; “Woodstock,” the Civil War and the Commonwealth ; 
“ Peveril of the Peak,” the reign of Charles II; “Waverly,” the period of the Pre¬ 
tender’s attempt to secure the throne in 1745 : while “ Ivanhoe,” “The Talisman,” 
and “ Count Robert of Paris,” are concerning the Crusaders. 

Scott was now able to gratify his ambition by the purchase of a large landed 
property. So, on the banks of his favorite Tweed, near the ruins of Melrose Abbey, he 
purchased his estate, and gave it the name of Abbotsford, Here his happy family 
sprang up around him, and herein 1820 he received from George IV the coveted 


















SIR WALTER SCOTT, 


162 

title of baronet. No greater instance of pecuniary success was ever recorded than 
that of Scott, and no greater instance of pecuniary failure. The great publishing 
firm of Ballantyne & Co., in which Scott had a heavy interest, failed, involving 
Scott to the amount of more than a hundred thousand pounds. He retired 
immediately to Edinburgh and set courageously to work to pay off the immense 
debt by his pen. With so much success did he labor that in four years he had 
reduced the debt by one-half He wrote the “Life of Napoleon,” “Tales of a 
Grandfather,” “Letters on Demonology,” “Woodstock,” and several other works, 
but now, in 1830, he began to break down: a stroke of paralysis foretold the 
end. He spent a year abroad in the attempt to recover his health, but turned 
homeward to die. He was brought, almost unconscious, to Abbotsford, where 
he passed away September 21, 1832. His two sons, two daughters, and several 
grandchildren survived him. His son-in-law, Lockhart, received his parting 
words: “ Be a good man; be virtuous, be religious; be a good man. Nothing 
else will comfort you when you come to lie here.” 






THE PARTING OF MARMION AND DOUGLAS. 
“ Marmion.” 


()T far advanced was morning day, 

When Marmion did his troop array 
'To Surrey’s camp to ride; 

He had safe conduct for his band 
Beneath the royal seal and hand, 

And Douglas gave a guide : 

The ancient Earl, with stately grace, 

Would Clara on her palfrey place, 

And whispered, in an undertone, 

“ Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown.” 

The train from out the castle drew, 

But Marmion stopped to bid adieu.— 

“ Though something I might plain,” he said, 
“ Of cold respect to stranger guest. 

Sent hither by your king’s behest, 

While in Tantallon’s towers I staid ; 

Part we in friendship from your land. 

And, noble Earl, receive my hand.” 

But Douglas round him drew his cloak, 

Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : 

“My manors, halls, and bowers shall still 
Be open, at my sovereign’s will. 

To each one whom he lists, howe’er 
Unmeet to be the owner’s peer. 

My castles are my king’s alone. 

From turret to foundation stone— 

The handjuf Douglas is his own ; 

And never shall in friendly grasp 
The hand of such as Marmion cfasp.” 


Burned Marmion’s swarthy cheek like fire 
And shook his very frame for ire. 

And—“ This to me !” he said,— 

“An’ ’twere not for thy hoary beard. 

Such hand as Marmion’s had not spared 
To cleave the Douglas’ head ! 

And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer. 

He who does England’s message here. 

Although the meanest in her State, 

May well, proud Angus, be thy mate. 

And, Douglas, more, I tell thee here. 

E’en in thy pitch of pride. 

Here in thy hold, thy vassals near 
(Nay, never look upon your lord. 

And lay your hands upon your sword), 

I tell thee, thou’rt defied ! 

And if thou said’st I am not peer 
To any lord of Scotland here, 

Lowland or highland, far or near. 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied !”— 

On the Earl’s cheek the flush of rage 
O’ercame the ashen hue of age; 

Fierce he broke forth,—“And dar’st thou then 
To beard the lion in his den. 

The Douglas in his hall! 

And hopest thou hence unscathed to go? 

No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no ! 

Up drawbridge, grooms !—what, warder; ho I 






SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


163 


Let the portcullis fall.”— 
l.ord Marmion turned—well was his need— 
And dashed the rowels in his steed, 

Like arrow through the archway sprung, 
The ponderous gate behind him rung: 

To pass there was such scanty room, 

The bars, descending, grazed his plume. 


The steed along the drawbridge flies. 

Just as it trembled on the rise ; 

Nor lighter does the swallow skim 
Along the smooth lake’s level brim; 

And when Lord Marmion reached his band. 
He halts, and turns with clenched hand. 


And shouts of loud defiance pours. 

And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 

“Horse! horse!” the Douglas cried, “and 
chase ! ’ ’ 

But soon he reined his fury’s ])ace : 

‘ ‘ A royal messenger he came. 

Though most unworthy of the name. 

St. Mary mend my fiery mood ! 

Old age ne’er cools the Douglas’ blood, 

I thought to slay him where he stood.— 

’Tis pity of him, too,” he cried : 

“Bold can he speak, and fairly ride, 

I warrant him a warrior tried.”— 

With this his mandate he recalls. 

And slowly seeks his castle halls. 



Melrose Abrey. 


MELROSE ABBEY. 

“The Lay ok the Last Minstrel.” 


n F 'FHOU wouldst view fair Melrose aright. 
Go visit it by the pale moonlight; 

- For the gay beams of lightsome day 

Gild but to flout the ruins gray. 

When the broken arches are black in night. 

And each shafted oriel glimmers white; 

When the cold light’s uncertain shower 
Streams on the ruined central tOAver ; 

When buttress and buttress, alternately. 


Seem framed of ebon and ivory; 

When silver edges the imagery. 

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die ; 
When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 

.4nd the owlet to hoot o’er the dead man’s grave, 
Then go—but go alone the while— 

Then view St. David’s ruined pile ; 

.•\nd, home returning, soothly swear. 

Was never scene so sad and fair ! 



















164 


SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


BOAT SONG. 

“The Lady of the Lake.” 


AIL to the Chief who in triumph advances ! 
Honour’d and bless’d be the ever-green 
Pine ! 

Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, 
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line ! 
Heaven send it happy dew. 

Earth lend it sap anew. 

Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, 

While every Highland glen 
Sends our shout back agen, 

“ Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe !” 


Proudly our pilbroch has thrill’d iii Glen Fruin, 
And Bannochar’s groans to our slogan replied ; 
Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin. 
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her 
side. 

Widow and Saxon maid 
Long shall lament our raid. 

Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe ! 
Lennox and Leven-glen 
Shake when they hear agen, 

“ Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe !” 


Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, 
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade ; 

When the whirlwind has stripp’d every leaf on the 
mountain. 

The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her 
shade. 

Moor’d in the rifted rock. 

Proof to the tempest’s shock. 

Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow ; 
INIenteith and Breadalbane, then, 

Echo his praise agen, 

“ Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe !” 


Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands ! 

Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine ! 

O ! that the rosebud that graces yon islands. 

Were wreathed in a garland around him to 
twine ! 

• O that some seedling gem. 

Worthy such noble stem. 

Honor’d and ble.ss’d in their shadow might 
grow ! 

Loud should Clan-Alpine then 
Ring from the deepmost glen, 

“ Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe !” 




SOLDIER, REST. 
“The Lady of the Lake.” 


D OLDIER, rest! thy warfare o’er, | 

Sleep the sleep that knows not break- I 
ing; 

Dream of battled fields no more. 

Days of danger, nights of waking. 

In our isle’s enchanted hall. 

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 

Fairy strains of music fall. 

Every sense in slumber dewing. 

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er. 

Dream of fighting fields no more : 

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking. 

Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 


No rude sound shall reach thine ear. 
Armor’s clang, or war-steed champing. 
Trump nor pibroch summon here 

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping; 
Yet the lark’s shrill fife may come 


At the daybreak from the fallow. 

And the bittern sound his drum, 

Booming from the sedgy shallow. 

Ruder sounds shall none be near. 

Guards nor warders challenge here; 

Here’s no war-steed’s neigh and champing. 
Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping. 

Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 

While our slumb’rous spells as.sail ye. 
Dream not, with the rising sun. 

Bugles here shall sound reveille. 

Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; 

Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying ; 
Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen. 

How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done. 

Think not of the rising sun. 

For at dawning to assail ye, 

Here no bugles sound reveille. 








SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


165 


THK FISHERMAN’S FUNERAL. 
“ The Antiquary.” 


R. Oldbuck soon arrived before the half- 
dozen cottages at Mussel-Crag. They 
now had, in addition to their usual squalid 
and uncomfortable appearance, the melancholy 
attributes of the house of mourning. The boats 
were all drawn up on the beach; and though the 
day was fine and the season favorable, the chant 
which is used by the fishers when at sea was silent, 
as well as the prattle of the children, and the 
shrill song of the mother as she sits mending her 
nets at the door. A few of the neighbors—some 
in their antique and well-saved suits of black, 
others in their ordinary clothes, but all bearing 
an expression of mournful sympathy with distress 
so sudden and unexpected—stood gathered around 
the door of Mucklebackit’s cottage, waiting “ till 
the body was lifted.” As the Laird of Monk- 
barns approached they made way for him to enter, 
doffing their hats and bonnets as he passed, with 
an air of melancholy courtesy, and he returned 
their salutes in the same manner. 

Inside the cottage the body was laid within the 
wooden bedstead which the young fisher had occu¬ 
pied while alive. At a little distance stood the 
father, whose rugged, weather-beaten, counte¬ 
nance, shaded by his grizzled hair, had faced 
many a stormy night and night-like day. He 
was apparently revolving his loss in his mind, with 
that stony feeling of painful grief peculiar to harsh 
and rough characters which almost breaks forth 
into hatred against the world and all that remain 
in it after the beloved object is withdrawn. The 
old man had made the most desperate efforts to 
save his son, and had been withheld only by main 
force from renewing them at a moment when, 
without any possibility of assisting the sufferer, he 
must himself have perished. All this apparently 
was boiling in his recollection. His glance was 
directed sidelong toward the coffin, as an object 
on which he could not steadfastly look, and yet 
from which he could not withdraw his eyes. His 
answers to the questions which were occasionally 
put to him were brief, harsh, and almost fierce. 

His family had not yet dared to address to him 
a word either of sympathy or consolation. His 


masculine wife, virago as she was, and absolutely 
mistress of the family, as she justly boasted her¬ 
self, on all ordinary occasions, was by this great 
loss terrified into silence and submission, and 
compelled to hide from her husband’s observation 
the bursts of her female sorrow. As he had rejected 
food ever since the disaster had happened, not 
daring to approach him, she had that morning, 
w'ith affectionate artifice, employed the youngest 
and favorite child to present her husband with 
some nourishment. His first action was to push it 
from him with an angry violence that frightened 
the child; his next was to snatch up the boy, and 
devour him with kisses. “Ye ’ll be a braw fellow 
an’ ye be spared, Patie; but ye ’ll never—never 
can be—what he was to me ! He has sailed his 
coble wi’ me since he was ten years auld, and there 
was na the like o’ him drew a net betwixt this and 
Buchanness. They say folks maun submit; I will 
try.” And he had been silent from that moment 
until compelled to answer necessary questions. 

In another corner of the cottage, her face cov¬ 
ered by her apron which she had flung over it, sat 
the mother,—the nature of her grief sufficiently 
indicated by the wringing of her hands and the 
convulsive agitations of her bosom which the cov¬ 
ering could not conceal. Two of her gossips, 
officiously whisjoering into her ear the common¬ 
place topic of resignation under irremediable mis¬ 
fortune, seemed as if they were endeavoring to 
stem the grief which they could not console. The 
sorrow of the children was mingled with wonder 
at the preparations they beheld around them, and 
at the unwonted display of wheaten bread and wine 
which the poorest peasant or fisher offers to his 
guests on these mournful occasions; and thus their 
grief for their brother’s death was almost already 
lost in admiration of the splendor of his funeral. 

But the figure of the old grandmother was the 
most remarkable of the sorrowing group. Seated 
on her accustomed chair, with her usual air of 
apathy and want of interest in what surrounded 
her, she seemed every now and then mechanically 
to resume the motion of twirling her spindle, then 
to look toward her bosom for the distaff, although 








SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


166 

both had been laid aside. She would then cast 
her eyes about, as if surprised at missing the usual 
implements of her industry, and appear struck at 
the black color of the gown in which they had 
dressed her, and embarrassed by the number of 
persons by whom she was surrounded. Then, 
finally, she would raise her head with a ghastly 
look, and fix her eyes upon the bed which con¬ 
tained the coffin of her grandson, as if she had at 
once, and for the first time, acquired sense to 
comprehend her inexpressible calamity. These 


At this moment the clergyman entered the cot¬ 
tage. He had no sooner received the mute and 
melancholy salutation of the company whom it 
contained, than he edged himself toward the un¬ 
fortunate father, and seemed to endeavor to slide 
in a few words of condolence or of consolation. 
But the old man was as yet incapable of receiving 
either. He nodded, however, gruffly, and shook 
the clergyman’s hand in acknowledgment of his 
good intentions ; but was either unable or unwil¬ 
ling to make any verbal reply. The minister next 



Kenilworth Castle, Scene oe Scott’s Famous Novel. 


alternate feelings of embarrassment, wonder, and 
grief seemed to succeed each other more than once 
upon her torpid features. But she spoke not a 
word, neither had she shed a tear; nor did one of 
the family understand, either from look or expres¬ 
sion, to what extent she comprehended the uncom¬ 
mon bustle around her. There she sat among 
the funeral assembly like a link between the sur¬ 
viving mourners and the dead corpse which they 
bewailed—a being in whom the light of existence 
was already obscured by the encroaching shadows 
of death. 


passed to the mother, moving along the floor as 
slowly, silently, and gradually as if he was afraid 
that the ground would, like unsafe ice, break 
beneath his feet, or that the first echo of a foot¬ 
step was to dissolve some magic spell, and plunge 
the hut, with all its inmates, into a subterranean 
abyss. The tenor of what he had said to the poor 
woman could only be judged by her answers, as, 
half-stifled by sobs ill-repressed, and by the cover¬ 
ing which she still kept over her countenance, she 
faintly answered, at each pause in his speech— 
“Yes, sir, yes! Ye’re very gude—ye’re very 















SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


167 


gude ! Nae doubt, nae doubt! It’s our duty to 
submit! But, O dear ! My poor Steenie ! the 
pride o’ my very heart, that was sae handsome and 
comely; and a help to his family and a comfort 
to us a’, and a pleasure to a’ that lookit on him ! 
O my bairn ! my bairn ! my bairn ! what for is 
thou lying there ? and eh ! what for am I left to 
greet for ye ! ” 

There was no contending with this burst of 
sorrow and natural affection. Oldbuck had re¬ 
course to his snuff-box to conceal the tears which, 
despite his caustic temper, were apt to start on 
such occasions. The female attendants whispered, 
and the men held their bonnets to their faces, and 
spoke apart with each other. .... 

Mr. Oldbuck observed to the clergyman that it 
was time to proceed with the ceremony. The 
father was incapable of giving directions, but the 
nearest relations of the family made a sign to the 
carpenter—who in such cases goes through the 
duty of the undertaker—to proceed with his office. 
The creak of the screw-nails presently announced 
that the lid of the last mansion of mortality was 
in the act of being secured above its tenant. . 

The coffin, covered with a pall, and supported 
upon hand-spikes by the nearest relatives, now 
only awaited the father to support the head, as 


THE NECESSITY AND 
From a Lette 

RELY upon it that you are now working 
hard in the classical mine, getting out the 
rubbish as fast as you can, and preparing 
yourself to collect the ore. I can not too much 
impress upon your mind that labor \?,\hQ condition 
which God has imposed on us in every station of 
life^—there is nothing worth having that can be 
had without it, from the bread which the peasant 
wins with the sweat of his brow, to the sports by 
which the rich man must get rid of his ennui. 
The only difference betwixt them is, that the poor 
man labors to get a dinner to his appetite, the 
rich man to get an appetite to his dinner. As for 
knowledge, it can no more be planted in the 
human mind without labor than a field of wheat 


is customary. Two or three of these privileged 
persons spoke to him, but he answered only by 
shaking his hand and his head in token of refusal. 
With better intention than judgment the friends, 
who considered this an act of duty on the part of 
the living, and of decency towards the deceased, 
would have proceeded to enforce their request had 
not Oldbuck interfered between the distressed 
father and his well-meaning tormentors, and in¬ 
formed them that he himself, landlord and master 
to the deceased, would ‘ ‘ carry his head to the 

grave.” . .. 

The sad procession now moved slowly forward, 
preceded by beadles or saulies, with their batons, 
miserable-looking old men, tottering as if on the 
edge of the grave to which they were marshalling 
another, and clad, according to Scottish guise, 
with threadbare black coats and hunting-caps dec¬ 
orated with rusty crape. The procession to the 
churchyard, at about half a mile distant, was made 
with the mournful solemnity usual on these occa¬ 
sions. The body was consigned to its parent 
earth; and vvhen the labor of the grave-diggers 
had filled up the trench, and covered it with fresh 
sod, Mr. Oldbuck, taking his hat off, saluted the 
assistants, who had stood by in mournful silence, 
and with that adieu disi)ersed the mourners. 


DIGNITY OF LABOR. 

. TCI His Son. 

can be produced without the previous use of the 
plough. There is, indeed, this great difference, 
that chance or circumstances may so cause it that 
another shall reap what the farmer sows; but no 
man can be deprived, whether by accident or mis¬ 
fortune, of the fruits of his own studies j and the 
liberal and extended acquisitions of knowledge 
which he makes are all for his own use. Labor, 
my dear boy, therefore, and improve the time. 
In youth our steps are light, and our minds are 
ductile, and knowledge is easily laid up. But if 
we neglect our spring, our summer will be use¬ 
less and contemptible, our harvest will be chaff, 
and the winter of our old age unrespected and 
desolate. 









SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


I 68 


SIR WALTER RALEIGH SPREADS HIS CLOAK FOR QUEEN ELIZABETH. 

From “Kenilworth.” 


^'^;HEY were soon launched on the j)rincely 
bosom of the broad Thames, upon which 
the sun now shone forth in all its splendor. 

“There are two things scarce matched in the 
universe,” said Walter to Blount,—“the sun in 
heaven, and the Thames on the earth.” 

“The one will light us to Greenwich well 
enough,” said Blount, “ and the other would take 
us there a little faster if it were ebb tide.” 

“And this is all thou think’st, all thou carest, 
all thou deem’st the use of the king of elements 
and the king of rivers,—to guide three such poor 
caitiffs as thyself and me and Tracy upon an idle 
journey of courtly ceremony ! ” 

“It is no errand of my seeking, faith!” re¬ 
plied Blount; “and I could excuse both the sun 
and the Thames the trouble of carrying me where 
I have no great mind to go, and where I expect 
but dog’s wages for my trouble. And by my 
honor,” he added, looking out from the head of 
the boat, “it seems to me as if our mes.sage were 
a sort of labor in vain ; for, see, the queen’s barge 
lies at the stairs, as if her majesty were about to 
take water.” 

It was even so. The royal barge, manned with 
the queen’s watermen richly attired in the regal 
liveries, and having the banner of England dis¬ 
played, did indeed lie at the great stairs which 
ascended from the river, and along with it two or 
three other boats for transporting such part of her 
retinue as were not in immediate attendance on 
the royal person. The yeomen of the guard—the 
tallest and most handsome men whom England 
could produce—guarded with their halberds the 
passage from the palace-gate to the river side, and 
all seemed in readiness for the queen’s coming 
forth, although the day was yet so early. 

“By my faith, this bodes us no good ! ” said 
Blount; “ it must be some perilous cause puts her 
grace in motion thus untimously. By my counsel, 
we were best put back again, and tell the earl 
what we have seen.” 

“Tell the earl what we have seen ! ” said Wal¬ 
ter; “why, what have we seen but a boat, and 
men with scarlet jerkins and halberds in their 


hands? Let us do his errand, and tell him what 
the queen says in reply.” 

So saying, he caused the boat to be pulled 
toward a landing-place at some distance from the 
principal one, which it would not at that moment 
have been thought respectful to approach, and 
jumped on shore, followed, though with reluc¬ 
tance, by his cautious and timid companions. As 
they approached the gate of the palace, one of the 
sergeant porters told them they could not at 
present enter, as her majesty was in the act of 
coming forth. The gentlemen used the name of 
the Earl of Sussex; but it proved no charm to 
subdue the officer, who alleged, in reply, that it 
was as much as his ])ost was worth to disobey in 
the least tittle the commands which he had re¬ 
ceived. 

“ Nay, I told you as much before,” said 
Blount. “Do, I pray you, my dear Walter, let 
us take boat and return.” 

“ Not till I see the queen come forth,” returned 
the youth, composedly. 

“Thou art mad, stark mad, by the mass!” 
answered Blount. 

“And thou,” said Walter, “art turned coward 
of the sudden. I have seen thee face half a score 
of shag-headed Irish kernes to thy own share of 
them, and now thou wouldst blink and go back to 
shun the frown of a fair lady !” 

At this moment the gates opened, and ushers 
began to issue forth in array, preceded and flanked 
by the band of gentlemen pensioners. After this, 
amid a crowd of lords and ladies, yet so disposed 
around her that she could see and be seen on all 
sides, came Elizabeth herself, then in the prime 
of womanhood and in the full glow of what in a 
sovereign was called beauty, and what would in the 
lowest rank of life have been truly judged a noble 
figure, joined to a striking and commanding phys¬ 
iognomy. She leant on the arm of Lord Huns 
don, whose relation to her by her mother’s side 
often procured him such distinguished marks of 
Elizabeth’s intimacy. 

The young cavalier we have so often mentioned 
had probably never yet approached so near the 





SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


169 


person of his sovereign ; and he pressed forward 
as far as the line of warders permitted, in order to 
avail himself of the present opportunity. His 
companion, on the contrary, kept pulling him 
backward, till Walter shook him off impatiently 
and let his rich cloak drop carelessly from one 
shoulder,—a natural action, which served, how¬ 
ever, to display to the best advantage his well-pro¬ 
portioned person. Unbonneting at the same time, 
he fixed his eager gaze on the queen’s approach 
with a mixture of respectful curiosity and modest 
yet ardent admiration, which suited so well with 
his fine features, that the warders, struck with his 
rich attire and noble countenance, suffered him to I 
approach the ground over which the queen was to 
pass somewhat closer than was permitted to ordi¬ 
nary spectators. Thus the adventurous youth stood 
full in Elizabeth’s eye,—an eye never indifferent 
to the admiration which she deservedly excited 
among her subjects, or to the fair proportions of 
external form which chanced to distinguish any 
of her courtiers. Accordingly, she fixed her keen 
glance on the youth, as she approached the place 
where he stood, with a look in which surprise at 
his boldness seemed to be unmingled with resent¬ 
ment, while a trifling accident happened which 
attracted her attention toward him yet more 
strongly. The night had been rainy, and just 
where the young gentleman stood a small quantity 
of mud interrupted the queen’s passage. As she 
hesitated to pass on, the gallant, throwing his 
cloak from his shoulders, laid it on the miry spot, 
so as to insure her stepping over it dry-shod. 
Elizabeth looked at the young man, who accom¬ 
panied this act of devoted courtesy with a pro¬ 
found reverence and a blush that overspread his 
whole countenance. The queen was confused, 
and blushed in her turn, nodded her head, hastily 
passed on, and embarked in her barge without j 
saying a word. | 

“Come along, sir coxbomb,” said Blount; 

“ your gay cloak will need the brush to-day, I 
wot. Nay, if you had meant to make a footcloth 
of your mantle, better have kept Tracy’s old drab- 
de-bure, which despises all colors.” 

“ This cloak,” said the youth, taking it up and 
folding it, “shall never be brushed while in my 
possession.” 1 


“And that will not be long; if you learn not a 
little more economy, we shall have you in ciierpo 
soon, as the Spaniard says.” 

Their discourse was here interrupted by one of 
the band of pensioners. 

“ I was sent,” said he, after looking at them 
attentively, “ to a gentleman who hath no cloak, 
or a muddy one. You, sir, I think,” addressing 
the young cavalier, “ are the man ; you will please 
to follow me.” 

“He is in attendance on me,” said Blount; 
“ on me, the noble Earl of Sussex’s master of 
horse.” 

“ I have nothing to say to that,” answered the 
messenger; “my orders are directly from her 
majesty, and concern this gentleman only.” 

So saying, he walked away, followed by Walter, 
leaving the others behind,—Blount’s eyes almost 
starting from his head with the excess of his aston¬ 
ishment. At length he gave vent to it in an ex¬ 
clamation,—“Who the good jere would have 
thought this?”—and, shaking his head with a 
mysterious air, he walked to his own boat, em¬ 
barked, and returned to Deptford. 

The young cavalier was, in the meanwhile, 
guided to the water-side by the pensioner, who 
showed him considerable respect,—a circumstance 
which, to persons in his situation, may be con¬ 
sidered as an augury of no small consequence. 
He ushered him into one of the wherries which 
lay ready to attend the queen’s barge, which was 
already proceeding up the river with the advan¬ 
tage of that flood-tide of which, in the course of 
their descent, Blount had complained to his asso¬ 
ciates. 

The two rowers used their oars with such expe¬ 
dition, at the signal of the gentleman pensioner, 
that they very soon brought their little skiff under 
the stern of the queen’s boat, where she sat be¬ 
neath an awning, attended by two or three ladies 
and the nobles of her household. She looked 
more than once at the wherry in which the young 
adventurer was seated, spoke to those around her, 
and seemed to laugh. At length, one of the at¬ 
tendants, by the queen’s order apparently, made a 
sign for the wherry to come alongside, and the 
young man was desired to step from his own skiff 
into the queen’s barge, which he performed with 






I/O 


SIR WALIER SCOTT. 


graceful agility at the forepart of the boat, and 
was brought aft to the queen’s presence,—the 
wherry at the same time dropping into the rear. 
The youth underwent the gaze of majesty not the 
less gracefully that his self-possession was mingled 
with embarrassment. The mudded cloak still 
hung upon his arm, and formed the natural topic 
with which the queen introduced the conversation. 

“ You have this day spoiled a gay mantle in our 
behalf, young man. We thank you for your ser¬ 
vice, though the manner of offering it was unusual, 
and something bold.” 

“In a sovereign’s need,” answered the youth, 
“ it is each liegeman’s duty to be bold.” 

“That was well said, my lord !” said the queen, 
turning to a grave person who sat by her, and 
answered with a grave inclination of the head, 
and something of a mumbled assent. “Well, 
young man, your gallantry shall not go unre¬ 
warded. Go to the wardrobe-keeper, and he 
shall have orders to supply the suit which you 
have cast away in our service. Thou shalt have a 
suit, and that of the newest cut, I promise thee, 
on the word of a princess.” 

“May it please your grace,” said Walter, hesi¬ 
tating, “ it is not for so humble a servant of your 
majesty to measure out your bounties; but if it 
became me to choose - 

“Thou wouldst ha\e gold, I warrant me,” said 


the queen, interrupting him; “fie, young man ! 
I take shame to say that, in our capital, such and 
so various are the means of thriftless folly, to give 
gold to youth is giving fuel to fire, and furnishing 
them with the means of self-destruction. If I live 
and reign, these means of unchristian excess shall 
be abridged. Yet thou mayest be poor,” she 

added, “ or thy parents maybe- It shall be 

gold, if thou wilt; but thou shalt answer to me 
for the use on ’t.” 

Walter waited patiently until the queen had 
done, and then modestly assured her that gold 
was still less in his wish than the raiment her 
majesty had before offered. 

“ How, boy ! ” said the queen ; “ neither gold 
nor garment? What is it thou wouldst have of 
me, then ? ’ ’ 

“ Only permission, madam,—if it is not asking 
too high an honor,—permission to wear the cloak 
\vhich did you this trifling service.” 

“ Permission to wear thine own cloak, thou 
silly boy !” said the queen. 

“ It is no longer mine,” said Walter ; “when 
your majesty’s foot touched it, it became a mantle 
fit for a prince, but far too rich a one for its 
former owner.” 

The queen again blushed, and endeavored to 
cover, by laughing, a slight degree of not unpleas¬ 
ing surprise and confusion. 


THE STORMENG OF FRONT-DE-B(EUF’S CASTLE. 
From “Ivanhoe. ” 


ND I must lie here like a bed-ridden monk,” 
exclaimed Ivanhoe, “ while the game that 
gives me freedom or death is played out 
by the hands of others ! Look from the window 
once again, kind maiden, but beware that you 
are not marked by the archers beneath. Look 
out once more, and tell me if they yet advance to 
the storm.” 

With j)atient courage, strengthened by the inter¬ 
val she had employed in mental devotion, Rebecca 
again took post at the lattice, sheltering herself, 
however, so as not to be vi.sible from beneath. 

“What dost thou see, Rebecca?” again de¬ 
manded the wounded knight. 


“ Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so 
thick as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bow¬ 
men who shoot them.” 

“That can not endure,” said Ivanhoe; “if 
they press not right on to carry the castle by pure 
force of arms, the archery may avail but little 
against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the 
Knight of the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see 
how he bears himself; for as the leader is so will 
the followers be.” 

“ I see him not,” said Rebecca. 

“Foul craven!” exclaimed Ivanhoe; “does 
he blench from the helm when the wind blows 
highest ? ” 










SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


“He blenches not! he blenches not!’’ said 
Rebecca; “ I see him now; he leads a body of 
men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. 
They pull down the piles and palisades, they hew 
down the barriers with axes. His high black 
plume floats abroad over the throng like a raven 
over the field of the slain. They have made a 
breach in the barriers—they rush on—they are 
thrust back !—Front-de-Boeuf heads the de¬ 
fenders; I see his gigantic form above the press. 
—They throng again to the breach, and the pass is 
disputed hand to hand and man to man. God of 
Jacob I it is the meeting of two fierce tides—the 
conflict of two oceans moved by adverse winds ! ” 
She turned her head from the lattice as if 
unable longer to endure a sight so terrible. 

“Look forth again, Rebecca,’’ said Ivanhoe, 
mistaking the cause of her retiring; “ the archery 
must in some degree have ceased, since they are 
now fighting hand to hand. Look again; there 
is now less danger.’’ 

Rebecca again looked forth and almost imme¬ 
diately exclaimed—“ Holy Prophets of the Law ! 
Front-de-Bceuf and the Black Knight fight hand 
to hand in the breach amid the roar of their 
followers, who watch the progress of the strife. 
Heaven strike with those who strike for the cause 
of the oppressed and the captive! ’’ She then 
uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed—“ He is 
down ! he is down ! ’’ 

“Who is down?” cried Ivanhoe; “for our 
dear Lady’s sake, tell me which has fallen ? ” 
“The Black Knight,” answered Rebecca, 
faintly; then instantly again shouted with joyful 
eagerness—“ But no—but no! the name of the 
Lord of Hosts be blessed ! he is on foot again, 
and fights as if there were twenty men’s strength 
in his single arm. His sword is broken—he 
snatches an axe from a yeoman—he presses Front- 
de-Boeuf with blow on blow. The giant stoops 
and totters like an oak under the steel of the 
woodman—he falls—he falls ! ” 

“ Front-de-Boeuf? ” exclaimed Ivanhoe. 

“ Front-de-Boeuf! ” answered the Jewess. “ His 
men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty 
Templar; their united force compels the champion 
to jiause. They drag Front-de-Boeuf within the 
walls.” 


171 

“The assailants have won the barriers, have 
they not ? ” said Ivanhoe. 

‘ ‘ They have—they have ! ’ ’ exclaimed Rebecca; 
“ and they press the besieged hard upon the outer 
wall. Some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, 
and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of 
each other. . . Down go stones, beams, and 

trunks of trees upon their heads; and as fast as they 
bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men supply 
their places in the assault. Great God ! hast thou 
given men thine own image that it should be thus 
cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren ! ” 

“Think not of that,” said Ivanhoe, “this is 
no time for such thoughts. Who yield ? Who 
push them away ? ’ ’ 

“The ladders are thrown down,” replied 
Rebecca, shuddering ; “ the soldiers lie groveling 
under them like crushed reptiles. The besieged 
have the better.” 

“ Saint George strike for us ! ” exclaimed the 
knight. “ Do the false yeomen give way ? ” 

“ No ! ” exclaimed Rebecca; “ they bear them¬ 
selves right yeomanly. The Black Knight ap¬ 
proaches the postern with his huge axe—the 
thundering blows which he deals you may hear 
above all the din and shouts of the battle. Stones 
and beams are hailed down upon the bold cham¬ 
pion—he regards them no more than if they were 
thistledown or feathers.” 

“By Saint Joan of Acre,” said Ivanhoe, raising 
himself joyfully on his couch, “ methought there 
was but one man in England that might do such 
a deed ! ” 

“The postern gate shakes,’’continued Rebecca; 
“it crashes—it is splintered by his blows; they 
rush in—the out-work is won. O God ! they hurl 
the defenders from the battlements—they throw 
them into the moat ! O men,—if indeed ye be 
men,—spare them that can resist no longer ! ” 

“ The bridge—the bridge which communicates 
with the castle—have they won that pass?” ex¬ 
claimed Ivanhoe. 

“No,” replied Rebecca, “the Templar has 
destroyed the plank on which they crossed. Few 
of the defenders escaped with him into the castle ; 
the shrieks and the cries which you hear tell the 
fate of the others. Alas ! I see it is still more 
! difficult to look upon victory than upon battle.” 




THE GREATEST ENGLISH NOVELIST. 


E HAS not only pleased ns—he has softened the hearts of a vhole 
generation. He made charity fashionable ; he awakened pity in 
the hearts of sixty millions of people. He made a whole generation 
keep Christmas with acts of helpfulness to the poor ; and every 
barefooted boy and girl in the streets of England and America 
to-day fares a little better, gets fewer cuffs and more pudding, 
because Charles Dickens wrote.” 

It may be questioned whether the benefit h'ere described is greater to the poor 
or to those whose hearts have been taught to open to the call of suffering and 
distress ; but surely the man who has wrought this change, not by formal preaching, 
or lecturing, or scolding, but by the most delightful books ever written in any lan¬ 
guage,—certainly he may be counted one of the great forces in human progress. 

Charles Dickens was the son of a clerk in the English navy pay-office, a man 
of little ability and no means, whose family suffered by his improvidence, and whose 
portrait his son has drawn as Mr. Micawber. The father was finally confined for 
debt in the Marshalsea prison, and his family experienced the hardships of extreme 
poverty. Charles was employed between the ages of nine and eleven in pasting 
labels on blacking boxes, at which irksome occupation he earned six shillings a 
week. He began thus early to practise the art of composition, in so far, at least, as 
that name can be given to the making-up and telling of imaginative stories to his 
companions in the warehouse. A small legacy somewhat relieved the family, and 
Charles was sent to school. He was later engaged as a lawyer’s clerk, and after¬ 
ward acquired shorthand and became a reporter; first in the law courts, then of 
parliamentary debates, and finally for the newspaper press. 

In 1834 appeared Dickens’s first published sketch, “Mrs. Porter, Over the 
Way.” This was succeeded by others, with the signature of “ Boz,” the short- 

172 






















CHARLES DICKENS. 


173 



ened form of a name given in sport to a younger brother, in allusion to the 
son of the Vicar of Wakefield: first “Moses,” it became “Boses,” and then 
“ Boz.” The sketches were well received, and at the end of the year the editor 
of the CJironicle engaged him to continue them in that paper, where they attracted 
much attention. In 1S36 they were published collectively in two volumes, illus¬ 
trated by Cruikshank. 

About this time, at the 
invitation of Chapman and 
Hall, Dickens began writing 
“ The Posthumous Papers of 
the Pickwick Club.” 

The first numbers were 
not successful, but the appear¬ 
ance of Sam Weller gained 
many readers, and the author 
was soon the most popular 
writer of the day. Before 
the completion of “ Pickwick,” 
“Oliver Twist” was begun in 
Bentley's Magazine. “ Pick¬ 
wick ” appeared in book form 
in 1837, “Oliver Twist” in 
1838, and “Nicholas Nickle- 
by ” in 1839. Under the gen¬ 
eral title of “ Master Hum¬ 
phrey’s Clock,” “The Old 
Curiosity Shop ” and “ Barna- 
by Rudge ” were published 
in monthly numbers in 1840 
and 1841. 

For forty - three years 
from the appearance of “ Pick¬ 
wick ” there was no cessation 
in the literary activity of 
Dickens. His visit to America 
in 1843 followed by the 
publication of his “ American 
Notes,” which held up to ridi- 
BiuTitri.ACE OF Dickens, Portsmouth, Encland. Cule the manners and CUStoms 

of the Americans in such a 
way as to alienate many of his admirers in this country. “ Martin Chuzzlewit,” 
published a year later, contains more of the same criticism. In 1843 appeared 
the “Christmas Carol,” the first of the series of .delightful stories adapted to 
that time of peace and good-will, the remaining ones being “The Chimes.” 
“The Cricket on the Hearth,” and “The Haunted Man.” written at intervals 
up to 1848. 



















174 


CHARLES DICKENS. 



In 1845 the Daily News was started under the editorial auspices of Dickens, 
and to its columns he contributed the sketches called “ Pictures of Italy.” But 
the position was not congenial to his tastes, and he soon withdrew from it and 
returned to his own loved walk. “ Dombey and Son,” the story of a purse-proud 
merchant, appeared in 1847 ; “ David Copperfield,” depicting the career of a young 
literary man struggling up to fame, in 1849 ; “Bleak House,” founded on the mis¬ 
eries of a suit in Chancery, in 1853 ; “ Little Dorritt,” the story of a young girl’s 
devotion to a father in prison for debt, in 1856: “A Tale of Two Cities,” in 1859 ; 
“Great Expectations,” in 1861 ; and “Our Mutual Friend,” in 1865. In 1850 he 
started Household Words, a weekly periodical, which was enriched by the contribu¬ 
tions of some of the ablest writers of the day, and which was brought to a con- 


Oadshii.i,, the Home of Charles Dickens. 

elusion in 1859. The next year succeeded All the Year Round, similar in plan 
and form. A number of Christmas stories were written in collaboration with 
others, and “ Our Mutual Friend” was printed in 1865. He had begun “The Mys¬ 
tery of Edwin Drood,” which was being published in serial form, when he died at his 
home, Gadshill Place, in 1870. 

Besides the more important works which have been mentioned, Dickens con¬ 
tributed to the magazines a great number of stories and sketches. About twelve 
years before his death he began to give public readings in London, They gave 
such great satisfaction to the immense audiences by which they were greeted, and 
were a source of so great profit to him, that they were continued in all the leading 
cities of England, and during a visit to America in 1868. 







CHARLES DICKENS. 


^75 


No man has ever ministered more to the delighted pleasure of his friends than 
did Charles Dickens. He delighted in entertaining his intimates at Gadshill, and 
the stories of the unconventional, happy times that there transpired are both num¬ 
erous and enjoyable. He has rarely been equaled as an after dinner speaker, and 
he took the greatest pleasure in acting upon the amateur stage, in plays of his own 
composition. Probably no other author, except Shakespeare, has created so large 
a number of characters universally known, and symbolizing some definite human 
frailty or human virtue. Pickwick. Micawber, Captain Cuttle, Peggoty, Little Nell, 
Uriah Heep, Mr. Dick, Barkis, Little Em’ly, Paul Dombey—how much we would 
miss v/ere these and the others who live in the pages of Dickens to drop out of 
our life. It is this large place filled by the children of his genius in the thought 
and feeling of the world that justifies the title we have given him,—the Greatest 
English Novelist. 



BARDELL versus PICKWICK. 
From “Pickwick Papers.” 


ERJEANT BUZFUZ now rose with more 
importance than he had ever exhibited, if 
that were possible, and vociferated, “ Call 
.Samuel Weller.” 

It was quite unnecessary to call Samuel Weller; 
for Samuel Weller stepped briskly into the box the 
instant his name was pronounced; and, placing 
his hat on the floor, and his arms on the rail, took 
a bird’s-eye view of the bar, and a comprehensive 
survey of the bench, with a remarkably cheerful 
and lively aspect. 

“ What’s your name, sir? ” inquired the judge. 

“ Sam Weller, my lord,” replied that gentleman. 

“ Do you spell it with a ‘ V ’ or a ‘ W ’ ? ” in¬ 
quired the judge. 

“ That depends upon the taste and fancy of the 
speller, my lord,” replied Sam. “ I never had 
occasion to spell it more than once or twice in my 
life; but I spells it with a ‘V.’ ” 

Here a voice in the gallery exclaimed aloud, 
“ Quite right, too, Samevil,—quite right. Put it 
down a we, my lord ; put it down a we.” 

“ Who is that, who dares to address the court ? ” 
said the little judge, looking up. “ Usher ! ” 

“ Yes, my lord.” 

“Bring that person here instantly.” 

“ Yes, my lord.” 


But as the usher did n’t find the person, he 
did n’t bring him ; and, after a great commotion, 
all the people who had got up to look for the cul¬ 
prit, sat down again. The little judge turned to 
the witness as soon as his indignation would allow 
him to speak, and said, “ Do you know who that 
was, sir ? ” 

“ I rayther suspect it was my father, my lord,” 
replied Sam. 

“ Do you see him here now? ” said the judge. 

“ No, I do n’t, my lord,” replied Sam, staring 
right up into the lantern in the roof of the court. 

“ If you could have pointed him out, I would 
have committed him instantly,” said the judge. 

Sam bowed bis acknowledgments, and turned 
with unimpaired cheerfulness of countenance 
towards Serjeant Buzfuz. 

“ Now, Mr. Weller,” said Serjeant Buzfuz. 

“Now, sir,” replied Sam. 

“ I believe you are in the service of Mr. Pick¬ 
wick, the defendant in this case. Speak up, if 
you please, Mr. Weller.” 

“ I mean to speak up, sir,” replied Sam. “ I 
am in the service of that ’ere gen’l’m’n, and a 
wery good service it is.” 

“Little to do, and plenty to get, I suppose?” 
said Serjeant Buzfuz, with jocularity. 









176 


CHARLES DICKENS. 


“ O, quite enough to get. sir, as the soldier said 
ven they ordered him three hundred and fifty 
lashes,” replied Sam. 

“You must not tell us what the soldier, or any 
other man said, sir,” interposed the judge ; “ it’s 
not evidence.” 

“ Wery good, my lord,” replied Sam. 

“ Do you recollect anything particular hap¬ 
pening on the morning when you were first 
engaged by the defendant; eh, Mr. Weller? ” 
said Serjeant Buzfuz. 

“Yes, I do, sir,” replied Sam. 

“Have the goodness to tell the jury what 
it was.” 

“ I had a reg’ler new fit-out o’ clothes that 
mornin’, gen’l’m’n of the jury,” said Sam; 

“ and that was a wery partickler and uncom¬ 
mon circumstance with me in those days.” 

Hereupon there was a general laugh; and 
the little judge, looking with an angry count¬ 
enance over his desk, said, “ You had better 
be careful, sir.” 

“So Mr. Pickwick said at the time, my 
lord,” replied Sam ; “ and I was wery careful 
o’ that ’ere suit o’ clothes,—wery careful in¬ 
deed, my lord.” 

The judge looked sternly at Sam for full two 
minutes; but Sam’s features were so perfectly 
calm and serene that the judge said nothing, 
and motioned Serjeant Buzfuz to proceed. 

“ Do you mean to tell me, Mr.Weller,” said 
Serjeant Buzfuz, folding his arms emphatically, 
and turning half round to the jury, as if in 
mute assurance that he would bother the wit¬ 
ness yet—“ do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller, 
that you saw nothing of this fainting on the 
part of the plaintiff in the arms of the defend¬ 
ant, which you have heard described by the 
witnesses? ” 

“ Certainly not,” replied Sam. “ I was in 
the passage till they called me up, and then the 
old lady was not there.” 

“ Now, attend, Mr. Weller,” said Serjeant Buz¬ 
fuz, dipping a large pen into the inkstand before 
him, for the purpose of frightening Sam with a 
show of taking down his answer. “You were in 
the passage, and yet saw nothing of what was 


going forward. Have you a pair of eyes, Mr. 
Weller ? ” 

“Yes, I have a pair of eyes,” replied Sam; 
“ and that’s just it. If they was a pair o’ patent 
double-million magnifyin’ gas microscopes of 
hextra power, p’r’aps I might be able so see 



Mr. Pickwick was the personification of kindness and humanity.” 


through a flight o’ stairs and a deal door ; but 
bein’ only eyes, you see my wision’s limited.” 

At this answer, which was delivered without the 
slightest appearance of irritation, and with the 
most complete simplicity and equanimity of man¬ 
ner, the spectators tittered, the little judge smiled, 
and Serjeant Buzfuz looked particularly foolish. 




CHARLES DICKENS. 


177 


After a short consultation with Dodson and Fogg, 
the learned Serjeant again turned toward Sam, 
and said, with a painful effort to conceal his vexa¬ 
tion, “ Now, Mr. Weller, I’ll ask you a question 
on another point, if you please.” 

“ If you please, sir,” said Sam, with the 
utmost good humor. 

“ Do you remember going up to Mrs. Bardell’s 
house one night in November last ? ” 

“ O, yes, wery well.” 

“ O, you do remember that, Mr. Weller,” said 
Serjeant Buzfuz, recovering his spirits; “I 
thought we should get at something at last.” 

“ I rayther thought that, too, sir,” replied Sam ; 
and at this the spectators tittered again. 

“ Well, I suppose you went up to have a little 
talk about this trial,—eh, Mr. Weller? ” said Ser¬ 
jeant Buzfuz, looking knowingly at the jury. 

“ I went up to pay the rent; but we did get a 
talkin’ about the trial,” replied Sam. 

“ O, you did get a talking about the trial,” 
said Serjeant Buzfuz, brightening up with the an¬ 
ticipation of some important discovery. “ Now, 
what passed about the trial? Will you have the 
goodness to tell us, Mr. Weller ? ” 

“ Vith all the pleasure in life, sir,” replied Sam. 
“ Arter a few unimportant observations from the 
two wirtuous females as has been examined here 
to-day, the ladies gets into a wery great state o’ 
admiration at the honorable conduct of Mr. Dod¬ 
son and Fogg,—them two gen’l’m’n as is settin’ 
near you now.” This of course drew general 


attention to Dodson and Fogg, who looked as 
virtuous as possible. 

“ The attorneys for the plaintiff,” said Mr. Ser¬ 
jeant Buzfuz. “ Well, they spoke in high praise 
of the honorable conduct of Messrs. Dodson and 
Fogg, the attorneys for the plaintiff, did they?” 

“Yes,” said Sam; “they said what a wery 
gen’rous thing it was o’ them to have taken up the 
case on spec, and to charge nothin’ at all for costs, 
unless they got ’em out of Mr. Pickwick.” 

At this very unexpected reply the spectators 
tittered again, and Dodson and Fogg, turning very 
red, leant over to Serjeant Buzfuz, and in a hur¬ 
ried manner whispered something in his ear. 

“You are quite right,” said Serjeant Buzfuz 
aloud, with affected composure. “It’s perfectly 
useless, my lord, attempting to get at any evidence 
through the impenetrable stupidity of this witness. 
I will not trouble the court by asking him any 
more questions. Stand down, sir.” 

“Would any other gen’l’m’n like to ask me 
anythin’?” inquired Sam, taking up his hat, and 
looking around most deliberately. 

“ Not I, Mr. Weller, thank you,” said Serjeaui. 
Snubbin, laughing. 

“ You may go down, sir,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, 
waving his hand impatiently. Sam went down 
accordingly, after doing Messrs. Dodson and 
Fogg’s case as much harm as he conveniently 
could, and saying just as little respecting Mr. 
Pickwick as might be, which was precisely the 
object he had l.ad in view all along. 


THROUGH 
From “David 

N the difficulty of hearing anything but 
wind and waves, and in the crowd, and 
the unspeakable confusion, and my first 
breathless efforts to stand against the weather, I 
Avas so confused that I looked out to sea for the 
wreck, and saw nothing but the foaming heads of 
the great waves. A half-dressed boatman, standing 
.next me, pointed with his bare arm (a tattooed 
arrow on it pointing in the same direction) to 
the left. Then, O great Heaven, I saw it close in 
upon us! 


fHE STORM. 

COPPERFIELD.” 

One mast was broken short off, six or eight feet 
from the deck, and lay over the side, entangled in 
a maze of sail and rigging; and all that ruin, as 
the ship rolled and beat—which she did without 
a moment’s pause, and with a violence quite incon¬ 
ceivable—beat the side as if it would stave it in. 
Some efforts were even then being made to cut 
this portion of the wreck away ; for, as the ship, 
which was broadside on, turned toward us in her 
rolling, I plainly descried her people at work with 
axes, especially one active figure with long, curling 







178 


CHARLES DICKENS. 



hair, conspicuous among the rest. But a great 
cry, which was audible even above the wind and 
water, rose from the shore at this moment; the 
sea, sweeping over the rolling wreck, made a clean 
breach, and carried men, spars, casks, planks, bul¬ 
warks, heaps of such toys, into the boiling surge. 
'Fhe second mast was yet standing, with the 
rags of a rent sail, and a wild confusion of 
broken cordage flapping to and fro. The ship 
had struck once, the same boatman hoarsely 
said in my ear, and then lifted in and struck 
again. I understood him to add that she was 
])arting amidships, and I could readily suj)pose 
so, for the rolling and beating were too tre¬ 
mendous for any human work to suffer long. 

As he spoke, there was another great cry of 
pity from the beach ; four men arose with the 
wreck out of the deep, clinging to the rigging 
of the remaining mast; uppermost, the active 
figure with the curling hair. 

There was a bell on board ; and as the ship 
rolled and dashed, like a desperate creature 
driven mad, now showing us the whole sweep 
of her deck, as she turned on her beam-ends 
toward the shore, now nothing but her keel, 
as she sprang wildly over and turned toward 
the sea, the bell rang; and its sound, the knell 
of those unhappy men, was borne toward us 
on the wind. Again we lost her, and again 
she rose. Two men were gone. The agony- 
onshore increased. Men groaned, and clasj)ed 
their hands; women shrieked, and turned away 
their faces. Some ran wildly up and down 
along the beach, crying for help where no help 
could be. I found myself one of these, fran¬ 
tically imploring a knot of sailors whom I knew 
not to let those two lost creatures perish before 
our eyes. They were making out to me, in an 
agitated way—I don’t know how, for the little 
I could hear I was scarcely composed enough to 
understand—that the life-boat had been bravely 
manned an hour ago, and could do nothing; 
and that as no man would be so desperate as 
'to attempt to wade off with a rope and estab¬ 
lish a communication with the shore, there was 
nothing left to try; when I noticed that some 
new sensation moved the people on the beach. 


and saw them part, and Ham come breaking 
through them to the front. 

I ran to him—as well as I know, to repeat my 
appeal for help. But, distracted though I was, by 
a sight so new and terrible, the determination in 
his face, and his look out to sea—exactly the same 


look as I remembered in connection with the 
morning after Emily’s flight—awoke me to a 
knowledge of his danger. I held him back with 
both arms, and implored the men with w-hom 
I had been speaking not to listen to him, not 


Captain Cutti.k. 

" Had been a pilot, or a skipper, or a privateer’s-man, or all three 
perhaps ; and was a very salt looking man indeed.” 





CHARLES DICKENS. 


179 


to do murder, not to let him stir from off I 
that sand ! 

Another cry arose on shore ; and looking to the 
wreck, we saw the cruel sail, with blow on blow, 
beat off the lower of the two men, and fly up in 
triumph round the active figure left alone upon 
the mast. 

Against such a sight, and against such determi¬ 
nation as that of the calmly desperate man who 
was already accustomed to lead half the people 
present, I might as hopefully have entreated the 
wind. “ Mas’r Davy,” he said, cheerily grasping 
me by both hands, “if my time is come, ’tis 
come. If ’tan’t. I’ll bide it. Lord above bless 
you, and bless all ! i^Iates, make me ready ! I’m 
a-going off! ” . . 

Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the 
silence of suspended breath behind him, and the 
storm before, until there was a great retiring 
wave, when, with a backward glance at those who 
held the rope which was made fast round his body, 
he dashed in after it, and in a moment was buffet¬ 
ing with the water; rising with the hills, falling 
with the valleys, lost beneath the foam; then 
drawn again to land. They hauled in hastily. 

He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from 
where I stood ; but he took no thought of that. 
He seemed hurriedly to give them some directions 
for leaving him more free—or so I judged from 
the motion of his arm—and was gone as before. 

And now he made for the wreck, rising with 
the hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath the 
ragged foam, borne in toward the shore, borne 
on toward the ship, striving hard and valiantly. 
The distance was nothing, but the power of the 
sea and wind made the strife deadly. At length 
he neared the wreck. He was so near that with 
one more of his vigorous strokes he would be 
clinging to it—when, a high, green, vast hillside 
of water, moving in shoreward from beyond the 
ship, he seemed to leap up into it with a mighty 
bound, and the ship was gone ! 

Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if 
a mere cask had been broken, in running to the 
spot where they were hauling in. Consternation 
was in every face. They drew him to my very 
feet—insensible—dead. He was carried to the 


nearest house ; and—no one prevented me now— 
I remained near him, busy ; while every means of 
restoration was tried ; but he had been beaten to 
death by the great wave, and his generous heart 
was stilled forever. 

As I sat beside the bed when hope was aban¬ 
doned and all was done, a fisherman, who had 
known me when Emily and I were children, and 
ever since, whispered my name at the door. 

“Sir,” said he, with tears starting to his 
weather-beaten face, which, with his trembling 
lips, was ashy pale, “will you come over yon¬ 
der?” 

I'he old remembrance that had been recalled 
to me was in his look. I asked him, terror- 
stricken, leaning on the arm he held out to sup¬ 
port me: 

“ Has a body come ashore? ” . 

He said, “ Yes.” 

“ Do I know it ? ” I asked then. 

He answered nothing. 

But he led me to the shore. And on that part 
of it where she and I had looked for shells, two 
children—on that part of it where some lighter 
fragments of the old boat, blown down last night, 
had been scattered by the wind—among the ruins 
of the home he had wronged—I saw him lying 
with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen 
him lie at school. 

No need, O Steerforth, to have said, when we 
last spoke together, in that hour which I so little 
deemed to be our parting hour—no need to have 
said, “Think of me at my best! ” I had done 
that ever; and could I change now, looking on 
this sight I They brought a hand-bier, and laid 
him on it, and covered him with a flag, and took 
him up and boj'e him on toward the house. All 
the men who carried him had known him, and 
gone sailing with him, and seen him merry and 
bold. They carried him through the wild roar, 
a hush in the midst of the tumult; and took him 
to the cottage where Death was already. But 
when they set the bier down on the threshold, 
they looked at one another, and at me, and 
whispered. I know why. They felt as if it were 
not right to lay him down in the same quiet 
room. 



i8o 


CHARLES DICKENS. 


THE DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. 
Fko.m “The Old Curiosity Shop.’’ 


HE was dead. No sleep so beautiful and 
calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to 
look upon. She seemed a creature fresh 
from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath 
of life; not one who had lived and suffered 
death. 

Her couch was dressed with here and there some 
winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a sjiot 
she had been used to favor. “ When I die, put 


ness were born,—imaged in her tranquil beauty 
and profound rejiose. 

And still her former self lay there, unaltered in 
this change. Yes. The old fireside had smiled 
upon that same sweet face ; it had passed like a 
dream through haunts of misery and care; at the 
door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer 
evening, before the furnace-fire upon the cold wet 
night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there 




Dickens’ “Old Curiosity Shop.’’ 


near me something that has loved the light and 
had the sky above it always.” Those were her 
words. 

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble 
Nell was dead. Her little bird—a poor slight 
thing the pressure.of a finger would have crushed 
—was stirring nimbly in its cage ; and the strong 
heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless 
forever. 

Where were the traces of her early cares, her 
sufferings and fatigues? All gone. Sorrow was 
dead indeed in her ; but peace and perfect happi- 


had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall we 
know the angels in their majesty, after death. 

The old man held one languid arm in his, and 
had the small hand tight folded to his breast, for 
warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out 
to him with her last smile,—the hand that had 
led him on through all their wanderings. Ever 
and anon he pressed it to his lips; then hugged 
it to his breast again, murmuring that it was 
warmer now; and as he said it, he looked, in 
agony, to those who stood around, as if imploring 
them to help her. 












CHARLES DICKENS. 


l8l 


She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. 
The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with 
life, even while her own was waning fast,—the 
garden she had tended,—the eyes she had glad¬ 
dened,—the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtful 
hour,—the paths she had trodden as it \vere but 
yesterday,—could know her no more. 

“It is not,” said the schoolmaster, as he bent 
down to kiss her on the cheek, and gave his tears 
free vent, “it is not on earth that Heaven’s jus¬ 
tice ends. Think what it is compared with the 
AVorld to which her young spirit has winged its 
early flight, and say, if one deliberate wush ex¬ 
pressed in solemn terms above this bed could call 
her back to life, which of us would utter it! ” 

When morning came, and they could speak 
more calmly on the subject of their grief, they 
heard how her life had closed. 

She had been dead two days. They were all 
about her at the time, knowing that the end was 
drawing on. She died soon after daybreak. 
They had read and talked to her in the earlier 
portion of the night; but, as the hours crept on, 
she sunk to sleep. They could tell, by what she 
faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of 
her journeyings with the old man : they were of 
no painful scenes, but of those who had helped 
and used them kindly; for she often said, “ God 
bless you ! ” with great fervor. Waking, she 
never wandered in her mind but once, and that 
was at beautiful music which she said was in the 
air. God knows. It may have been. 

Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet 
sleep, she begged that they would kiss her once 
again. That done, she turned to the old man 
with a lovely smile upon her face,—such, they 
said, as they had never seen, and never could for¬ 
get,—and clung with both her arms about his 
neck. They did not know that she was dead, at 
first. 

She had never murmured or complained, but, 
with a quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered,— 
save that she every day became more earnest and 
more grateful to them,—faded like the light upon 
a summer’s evening. 

The child who had been her little friend came 
there almost as soon as it was day, with an offer¬ 


ing of dried flowers which he begged them to lay 
upon her breast. It was he who had come to the 
window overnight and spoken to the sexton ; and 
they saw in the snow traces of small feet, where he 
had been lingering near the room in which she 
lay before he went to bed. He had a fancy, it 



Mr. Micawber. 

“ With a certain indescribable air of doing something genteel.” 


seemed, that they had left her there alone; and 
could not bear the thought. 

He told them of his dream again, and that it 
was of her being restored to them, just as she used 
to be. He begged hard to see her, saying that he 
would be very quiet, and that they need not fear 








i 82 


CHARLES DICKENS. 


his being alarmed, for he had sat alone by his 
young brother all day long, when he was dead, 
and had felt glad to be so near him. They let 
him have his wish ; and, indeed, he kept his 
word, and was in his childish way a lesson to 
them all. 

Up to that time the old man had not spoken 
once,—except to her,—or stirred from the bed¬ 
side. But when he saw her little favorite, he was 
moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as 
though he would have him come nearer. Then, 
pointing to the bed, he burst into tears for the 
first time ; and they who stood by, knowing that 
the sight of this child had done him good, left 
them alone together. 

Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the 
child jiersuaded him to take some rest, to walk 
abroad, to do almost as he desired him. And when 
the day came on which they must remove her in 
her earthly shape from earthly eyes forever, he led 
him away, that he might not know when she was 
taken from him. They were to gather fresh 
leaves and berries for her bed. 

And now the bell—the bell she had so often 
heard by night and day, and listened to with 
solemn pleasure almost as a living voice—rung its 
remorseless toll for her, so young, so beautiful, so 
good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and 
blooming youth, and helpless infancy, poured 
forth—on crutches, in the pride of strength and 
health, in the full blush of promise, in the mere 
dawn of life—to gather round her tomb. Old 
men were there, whose eyes were dim and senses 
failing—grandmothers, who might have died ten 
years ago, and still been old,—the deaf, the 
blind, the lame, the palsied, the living dead in 

-•( 

SAM WELLER’ 
From “ Pickv 

AM had unconsciously been a full hour and 
a half writing words in small text, smear¬ 
ing out wrong letters with his little finger, 
and putting in new ones which required going 
over very often to render them visible through the 
old blots, when he was roused by the opening of 


many shapes and forms,—to see the closing of that 
early grave. 

Along the crowded path they bore her now,— 
pure as the newly fallen snow that covered it,— 
whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under 
that porch, where she had sat when Heaven in its 
mercy brought her to that peaceful spot, she 
passed again, and the old church received her in 
its quiet shade. 

They carried her to one old nook, where she 
had many and many a time sat musing, and laid 
their burden softly on the pavement. The light 
streamed on it through the colored window,—a 
window where the boughs of trees were ever rust¬ 
ling in the summer, and where the birds sang 
sweetly all day long. With every breath of air 
that stirred among those branches in the sunshine, 
some trembling, changing light would fall upon 
her grave. 

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 
Many a young hand dropped in its little wreath, 
many a stifled sob was heard. Some—and they 
were not a few—knelt down. All were sincere 
and truthful in their sorrow. 

They saw the vault covered and the stone fixed 
down. Then, when the dusk of evening had come 
on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness 
of the place,—when the bright moon poured in 
her light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, 
and arch, and, most of all (it seemed to them) 
upon her quiet grave,—in that calm time, when 
all outward things and inward thoughts teem with 
assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and 
fears are humbled in the dust before them,—then, 
with tranquil and submissive hearts they turned 
away, and left the child with God. 


S V.ALENTINE. 

CK Papkrs.” 

the door and the entrance of his parent. “Veil, 
Sammy,” said the father. “Veil, my Proosian 
Blue,” responded the son, laying down his 
pen. 

“Butwot’s that you’re a-doin’ of—pursuit of 
knowledge under difficulties—eh, Sammy? ” 







CHARLES DICKENS. 



“ I’ve done now,” said Sam with slight embar¬ 
rassment ; “ I’ve been a-writin’.” 

” So I see,” replied Mr. Weller. “ Not to any 
young ’ooman, I hope, Sammy.” 

“ Why, it’s no use a-sayin’ it a’n’t,” replied 
Sam. “ It’s a walentine.” 

“A what! ” exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently 
horror-stricken by the word. 

“A walentine,” replied Sam. 

“ Samivel, Samivel,” said Mr. Weller, in re¬ 
proachful accents, “I didn’t think you’d ha’ 
done it. Arter the wardin’ you’ve had o’ your 
father’s Avicious propensities; arter all I’ve said to 
you upon this here wery subject; arter actiwally 
seein’ and bein’ in the company o’ your own 
mother-in-law, vich I should ha’ thought wos a 
moral lesson as no man could never ha’ forgotten 
to his dyin’ day ! I did n’t think you’d ha’ done 
it, Sammy, I did n’t think you’d ha’ done it! ” 

“Nonsense,” said Sam. “I a’n’t a-goin’ to 
get married, do n’t fret yourself about that. Order 
in your pipe, and I’ll read you the letter—there.” 

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready 
for any corrections, and began with a very theat¬ 
rical air: “‘Lovely’”- 

“Stop,” said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. 
“ A double glass o’ the inwariable, my dear.” 

“Very well, sir,” replied the girl; who with 
great quickness appeared, vanished, returned, and 
disappeared. 

“They seem to know your ways here,” observed 
Sam. 

“Yes,” replied his father, “I’ve been here 
before, in my time. Go on, Sammy.” 

“ ‘Lovely creetur,’ ” repeated Sam. 

“ Ta’n’t in poetry, is it ? ” interposed his father. 

“ No, no,” replied Sam. 

“Wery glad to hear it,” said Mr. Weller. 
“ Poetry’s unnat’ral; no man ever talked poetry 
’cept abeadle on boxin’ day, or Warren’s blackin’, 
or Rowland’s oil, or some o’ them low fellows; 
never let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. 
Begin ag’in, Sammy.” 

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical so¬ 
lemnity, and Sam once more commenced, and 
read as follows: “ ‘ Lovely creetur i feel myself a 
damned-’ ” 


183 

“That a’n’t proper,” said Mr. Weller, taking 
his pipe from his mouth. 

“ No; it a’n’t ‘damned,’ observed Sam, hold¬ 
ing the letter up to the light, “it’s ‘shamed,’ 
there’s a blot there—‘ I feel myself ashamed.’ ” 


“ Wery good,” said Mr. Weller. “Go on.” 

“ ‘ Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir-’ 

I forget what this here word is,” said Sam, scratch¬ 
ing his head with the pen, in vain attempts to 
remember. 


Sam Weller. 

We eats oiir biled mutton without capers, and don’t care for 
horse-radish wen ve can get beef.” 






184 


CHARLES DICKENS. 


“ Why do n’t you look at it, then? ” inquired 
Mr. Weller. 

“So I am a-lookin’ at it,” replied Sam, “but 
there’s another blot. Here’s a c and a i and z. d." 

“ ‘ Circumwented,’ p’r’aps,” suggested Mr. 
Weller. 

“No, it a’n’t that,” said Sam; “‘circum¬ 
scribed’; that’s it.” 

“ That a’n’t as good a word as circumwented, 
Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, gravely. 

“ Think not ? ” said Sam. 

“Nothin’ like it,” replied his father. 

■“But don’t you think it means more?” in¬ 
quired Sam. 

“Veil, p’raps it is a more tenderer word,” said 
Mr. Weller, after a few moments’ reflection. 
“ Go on, Sammy.” 

“ ‘ Feel myself ashamed and completely circum¬ 
scribed in a dressin’ of you, for you are a nice 
gal and nothin’ but it.’ ” 

“That’s a wery pretty sentiment,” said the 
elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way 
for the remark. 

“Yes, I think it is rayther good,” observed 
Sam, highly flattered. 

“ Wot I like in that ’ere style of writin’,” said 
the elder Mr. Weller, “is that there a’n’t no 
callin’ names in it—no Wenuses, nor nothin’ o’ 
that kind. Wot’s the good o’ callin’ a young 
’ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy? ” 

“Ah ! what indeed ? ” replied Sam. 

“ You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a 
unicorn, or a King’s Arms at once, which is wery 
well known to be a collection of fabulous animals,” 
added Mr. Weller. 


“Just as well,” replied Sam. 

“Drive on, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller. 

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded 
as follows: “ ‘ Afore I see you I thought all women 
was alike.’ ” 

“So they are,” observed the elder Mr. Weller, 
parenthetically. 

“ ‘But now,’ ” continued Sam, “ ‘now I find 
what a reg’lar soft-headed, inkred’lous turnip I 
must ha’ been; for there a’n’t nobody like you 
though / like you better than nothin’ at all.’ I 
thought it best to make that rayther strong,” said 
Sam, looking up. Mr. Weller nodded approv¬ 
ingly, and Sam resumed. “ ‘ So I take the privi- 
lidge of the day, Mary, my dear, to tell you that 
the first and only time I see you, your likeness was 
took on my h’arf in much quicker time and 
brighter colors than ever a likeness was took by 
the profeel machine, altho’ it does finish a portrait 
and put the frame and glass on complete with a 
hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two 
minutes and a quarter. ’ ” 

“I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, 
Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, dubiously. 

“No, it don’t,” replied Sam, reading on very 
quickly to avoid contesting the point—“ ‘ Except 
of me, Mary, my dear, as your walentine, and 
think over what I’ve said.—My dear Mary I will 
now conclude.’ That’s all,” said Sam. 

“That’s rayther a sudden pull up, a’n’t it, 
Sammy?” inquired Mr. Weller. 

“Not a bit on it,” said Sam; “she’ll wish 
there was more, and that’s the great art o’ letter- 
writin’.” 







* 34t * * 




♦ ^ 


WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 

THE GREAT HUMORIST AND NOVELIST. 

T is long since England lost such a son,” wrote a distinguished 
critic, soon after the death of Thackeray. “ It will be long before 
she has such another to lose. He was indeed emphatically 
English,—English as distinct from Scotch, no less than English as 
distinct from Continental. The highest purely English novelist 
j since Fielding, he combined Addison’s love of virtue with John¬ 
son’s hatred of cant; Horace Walpole’s lynx eye for the mean 
and the ridiculous, with the gentleness and wide charity for mankind, as a whole, 
of Goldsmith. He will be remembered in his due succession with these men for 
ages to come, as long as the hymn of praise rises in the old Abbey of West¬ 
minster, and wherever the English tongue is native to men, from the banks of the 
Ganges to those of the Mississippi.” 

Thackeray’s father was a wealthy officer in the Indian service, and the great 
novelist was born in Calcutta in iMi. Pie was early sent to England, to be 
educated at the school of the Charter House, which he describes under the name 
of Greyfriars in his stories. He entered Cambridge, but coming into his prop¬ 
erty on the death of his father, he left college, and spent some time in Italy and 
Germany in the study of art, intending to become a painter. He never acquired 
any great degree of skill, but he was very apt in outline drawing, and made fre¬ 
quent use of this ability in illustrating his later work, especially his contributions 
to Punch. He invested most of his means in setting up a daily newspaper, The 
Co7istilutional, which lived a year and then disappeared, and with it all of Thackeray’s 
wealth. He probably counted this event a grave misfortune, but to it the world 
owes a great number of delightful sketches, and at least five of the most famous 
novels in the English language. He began to write for Fraser's Magazme under the 
names of “Michael Angelo Titmarsh” and “George Fitz-Boodle, Esq.,” and for 
Pimch under the title “ Fat Contributor.” To the latter he contributed the inimi¬ 
table “Jeames’s Diary” and “The Snob Papers.” “If satire could do aught to 
check the pride of the vulgar upstart, or shame social hypocrisy into truth and 
simplicity, these writings would accomplish the end.” 

Thackeray’s name now became known and his writings sought after. In 1846 
appeared his first, and perhaps greatest, novel, “ Vanity Fair,” which gave him 
rank at once as one of the greatest living writers of fiction. Nowhere is Thack- 

185 















iS6 


WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 



Cray’s peculiar power more concentrated than in this novel, and the heroine—the 
cool “woman of the world ” Becky Sharp, an unprincipled governess, elbowing her 
way into fashionable life—will long remain the type of feminine intellect without 
virtue. In 1849 appeared “ Pendennis.” the hero of which is an accomplished, gen¬ 
tleman-like “man of 
the world,” without 
much moral principle 
to guide him. 

In 1851 Thack¬ 
eray delivered at 
“Willis’s Rooms” a 
course of six lectures 
on the “English Hu¬ 
morists of the Eigh¬ 
teenth Century,” com¬ 
mencing the course 
with Swift and ending 
with Goldsmith. All 
that was most brilliant 
in the capital was as¬ 
sembled to hear him. 
Amidst a throng of 
nobles and beauties 
and men of fashion 
were Carlyle and Ma¬ 
caulay, Hallam with 
his venerable head, 
and Charlotte Bronte, 
whose own fame was 
just at its height, and 
who saw in the lec¬ 
turer her ideal of an 
elevated and high- 
minded master of lit¬ 
erary art. The lec¬ 
tures were thoroughly 
appreciated. Every¬ 
body was delighted to 
see the great masters 
of English of a past 
Major Pendennis. age brought tO life 

again in their habits 

as they lived, and endowed with the warm human reality of the lecturer’s Dobbins, 
and Warringtons. and Pendennises. 

Toward the close of 1852 appeared “Esmond,” who introduces us to the 
society of Addison and Steele ; and after that Thackeray came over to our country 









WILLIAM MAKKPEACE THACKERAY, 


187 


and delivered his lectures upon “ I he Four Georges.” He was ev^erywhere 
received with great enthusiasm, and his lectures were numerously attended, and 
elicited the warmest commendations. On his return, “The Newcomes” and “ The 
Virginians” appeared, and a new set of lectures on “The Four Georges.” In 
i860 he became the editor of the Coriihill Jlf^oasine, which rapidly attained a 
degree of success without example in English magazine literature. “ Lovel the 
Widower and “The Adventures of Philip” appeared in its pages; but they are 
not to be compared with his previous novels. The last of his published works was 
“ Roundabout Papers,” consisting of twenty papers which appeared from time to 
time in the Cornhill, and in which are seen much of the irony, humor, and shrewd¬ 
ness of the author. Several of Thackeray’s best novels were published as serials, 
and he continued his connection with the magazines until within a short time of his 
death, which occurred in 1863 ; but he broke off his connection with Pimch in 1854. 
apparently because he thought the tone of that humorous paper not what it should 
be. 

A dark shadow had early fallen upon his domestic life. His young wife, after 
giving birth to two daughters, was stricken with a mental malady, from which she 
never recovered. His daughters, who grew up to be the joy of his life, were 
placed with his mother at Paris, while he lived a lonely life in London lodgings. 
It was under these circumstances that “ \"anity Fair ” was begun early in 1847. It 
is the most widely known of all his works, although “The Newcomes” is regarded 
as the best of his novels. 

The other works of Thackeray consist mainly of his contributions to Fraser 
and the Coinihill, several volumes of foreign sketches, small Christmas books, and 
a volume of clever “Ballads.” Among these works are: “The Book of Snobs.” 
“The Yellowplush Papers,” “The Fitz-Boodle Papers,” “The Paris Sketch Book,” 
“The Irish Sketch Book,” “A Journey from Cornhill to Cairo,” “Cox’s Diary,” 
“ The Second Funeral of Napoleon,” “ A Legend of the Rhine,” “ The Kickleburys 
on the Rhine,” “Mrs. Perkins’s Ball,” “Our Street,” “Dr. Birch and his Young 
P'riends,” and “The Rose and the Ring.” In 1887 was published a “Collection 
of the Letters of Thackeray,” written between 1847 his close friends, 

Mr. and Mrs. Brookfield. These present our best picture of the noble and 
lovable character of the man. 

Thackeray was a keen critic, and held up to ridicule the foibles and weak¬ 
nesses of mankind with a satire severe but mellowed with kindliness. It was for 
the arrogant and deceitful in fashionable society that he reserved his keenest shafts, 
and no man was ever more charitable to weakness when not concealed by decep¬ 
tion. It has been said that in Dickens’s characters we see,our neighbor’s faults 
reflected ; in Thackeray’s we recognize our own. However this may be, certain it 
is that few of the famous writers have contributed more to the opening of the eyes 
of society to its own failings. He plied the lash unmercifully, but in a way that 
held the victim in spite of himself. He has not written solely to please, but his 
novels will continue to delight until men cease to enjoy the lifelike portraiture of 
the society in which their fathers moved. 


WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 


188 


THE FOTHERINGAY OFF THE STAGE. 
From “Pendennis.” 


S Pen followed his companion up the creak¬ 
ing old stairs his knees trembled under 
him. He could hardly see when he en¬ 
tered, following the Captain, and stood in the 
room—her room. He saw something black be¬ 
fore him, and waving as if making a courtesy ; 
and heard, but quite indistinctly, Costigan mak¬ 
ing a speech over him, in which the Captain, with 
his habitual magniloquence, expressed to “ me 
child ” his wish to make her known to “ his dear 
and admirable young friend, Mr. Authur Pindin- 
nis, a young gentleman of property in the neigh¬ 
borhood, a person of refoined moind and amiable 
manners, a sincere lover of poethry;‘and a man 
possest of a feeling and affectionate heart.” 

“It is very fine weather,” Miss Fotheringay 
said, with an Irish accent, and a deep, rich, mel¬ 
ancholy voice. 

“Very,” said Mr. Pendennis. 

“And very warm,” continued this Empress and 
Queen of Sheba. 

The conversation thus begun rolled on. She 
asked Costigan whether he had had a pleasant 
evening at the George, and he recounted the sup- 
l^er and the tumblers of punch. Then the father 
asked her how she had been employed during the 
morning. 

“Bows came,” said she, “at ten, and we 
studied Ophaylia. It’s for the twenty-fourth, 
when I hope. Sir, we shall have the honor of 
seeing ye.” 

“ Indeed you will,” Mr. Pendennis cried; 
wondering she should say “ Ophaylia,” and speak 
with an Irish inflection of voice naturally, who 
had not the least Hibernian accent on the stage. 

“ I’ve secured ’um for your benefit, dear,” 
said the Captain, tapping his waistcoat pocket, 
wherein lay Pen’s sovereigns, and winking at Pen, 
with one eye, at which the boy blushed. 

“ Mr. -, the gentleman’s very obleeging,” 

said she. 

“ My name is Pendennis,” said Pen, blushing. 
“I—I—hope you’ll—you’ll remember it.” His 
heart thumped so as he made this audacious decla¬ 
ration, that he almost choked in uttering it. 


“ Pendennis,” she answered slowly, and look¬ 
ing him full in the eyes with a glance so straight, 
so clear, so bright, so killing, with a voice so 
sweet, so round, so low, that the word transfixed 
him with pleasure. 

“ I never knew the name was so pretty before,” 
Pen said. 

“’Tis a very pretty name,” Opheliasaid. “Pent- 
weazle’s not a pretty name. Remember, papa, 
when we were on the Norwich Circuit, young 
Pentweazle, who used to play second old man, and 
married Miss Raney, the Columbine? They’re 
both engaged in London now, at the Queen’s, and 
get five pounds a week. Pentweazle was n’t his 
real name. ’Twas Jedkin gave it to him—I do n’t 
know why. His name was Harrington ; that is, 
his real name was Potts ; fawther a clergyman, 
very respectable. Harrington was in London, and 
got into debt. Ye remember, he came out in 
Falkland, to Mrs. Bunce’s Julia. ” 

“And a pretty Julia she was,” the Captain inter¬ 
posed ; “a woman of fifty, and a mother of ten 
children. ’Tis you who ought to have been Julia, 
or my name’s not Jack Costigan.” 

“ I didn’t take the leading business then,” Miss 
Fotheringay said modestly. “ I was n’t fit for ’t 
till Bows taught me.” 

“True for you, my dear,” said the Captain; 
and bending to Pendennis, he added : “ Rejuced 
in circumstances, sir, I was for some time a fenc¬ 
ing-master in Dublin;—there’s only three men 
in the empire could touch me with the foil once, 
but Jack Costigan’s getting old and stiff now, sir— 
and my daughter had an engagement at the thay- 
ater there ; and ’twas there that my friend, Mr. 
Bows, gave her lessons, and made her what ye 
see. What have ye done since Bows went, 
Emily ? ” 

“Sure, I’ve made a pie,” Emily said, with 
perfect simplicity. She pronounced it Poy. 

“ If ye’ll try it at four o’clock, sir, say the 
word,” said Costigan, gallantly. “That girl, sir, 
makes the best veal-and-ham pie in England ; and 
I think I can promise ye a glass of punch of the 
right flavor.” 










WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 


Pen had promised to be home at dinner at six 
o’clock; but the rascal thought he could accom¬ 
modate pleasure and duty in this point, and was 
only too eager to accept this invitation. He looked 
on with wonder and delight whilst Ophelia busied 
herself about the room, and prepared for the 
dinner. She arranged the glasses, and laid and 
smoothed the little cloth, all which duties she per¬ 
formed with a quiet grace and good humor which 
enchanted her guest more and more. The “ Poy ’ ’ 
arrived from the baker’s at the proper hour, and 
at four o’clock Pen found himself at dinner— 
actually at dinner with the handsomest woman in 
creation—with his first and only love, whom he 
had adored ever since, when ?—-ever since yester¬ 
day, ever since forever. He ate a crust of her 
making; he poured her out a glass of beer; he 
saw her drink a glass of punch—^just one wine- 
glassful out of the tumbler which she mixed for 
her papa. She was perfectly good-natured, and 
offered to mix one for Pendennis, too. It was pro¬ 
digiously strong; Pen had never in his life drunk 
so much spirifs-and-water. Was it the punch or 
the punch-maker who intoxicated him ? 

Pen tried to engage her in conversation about 
poetry and about her profession. He asked her 
what she thought of Ophelia’s madness, and 
whether she was in love with Hamlet or not. “ In 
love with such a little ojus wretch as that stunted 
manuger of a Bingley ! ” She bristled with indig¬ 
nation at the thought. Pen explained that it was 
not her of whom he spoke, but of the Ophelia of 
the play. “ Oh, indeed, if no offense was meant, 
none was taken; but as for Bingley, indeed, she 
did not value him—not that glass of punch ! ” 

Pen next tried her on Kotzebue. “ Kotzebue? 
Who was he?” “The author of the play in 
which she had been performing so admirably ? ” 
“She did not know that—the man’s name at the 
beginning of the book was Thompson,” she said. 
Pen laughed at her adorable simplicity. 

“ What was that he was talking about, the mad¬ 
ness of Hamlet, and the theory of the great Ger¬ 
man critic on the subject? ” Emily asked of her 
father. 

“’Deed then, I don’t know, Milly dear,” an¬ 


189 

swered the Captain. “ We’ll ask Bows when he 
comes. ’ ’ 

“Anyhow, he’s a nice, fair-spoken, pretty 
young man,” the lady said. “ How many tick¬ 
ets did he take of you ? ” 

“ Faith, then, he took six, and gev me two 
guineas, Milly,” the Captain said. “I suppose 
them young chaps is not too flush of coin.” 

“ He’s full of book-learning,” Miss Fotherin- 
gay continued. “Kotzebue! He, he, what a 
droll name, indeed, now ; and the poor fellow 
killed by sand, too! Did ye ever hear such a 
thing? I’ll ask Bows about it, papa dear.” 

“A queer death, sure enough,” ejaculated the 
Captain, and changed the painful theme. “ ’Tis 
an elegant mare the young gentleman rides,” 
Costigan went on to say, and a grand breakfast, 
inti rely, that young Mr. Foker gave us.” 

“ He’s good for two private boxes, and at least 
twenty tickets, I should say,” cried the daughter. 

“ I’ll go bail of that,” answered the papa. And 
so the conversation continued for a while, until 
the tumbler of punch was finished; and their 
hour of departure soon came too ; for at half-past 
six Miss Fotheringay was to appear at the theater 
again, whither her father always accompanied her ; 
and stood, as we have seen, in the side-scene 
watching her, and drinking spirits-and-water in 
the green-room with the company there. 

“How beautiful she is,” thought Pen, canter¬ 
ing homewards. “ How simple and how tender ! 
How charming it is to see a woman of her genius 
busying herself with the humble offices of domestic 
life, cooking dishes to make her old father com¬ 
fortable, and brewing him drink! How rude it 
was of me to begin to talk about professional mat¬ 
ters, and how well she turned the conversation ! 
By-the-way, she talked about professional matters 
herself; but then with what fun and humor she 
told the story of her comrade, Pentweazle, as he 
was called ! There is no humor like Irish humor. 
Her father is rather tedious, but thoroughly ami¬ 
able ; and how fine of him giving lessons in fenc¬ 
ing, after he quitted the army, where he was the 
pet of the Duke of Kent! Fencing ! I should 
like to continue my fencing, or I shall forget what 
Angelo taught me. Uncle Arthur always liked 



190 


WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 


me to fence; he says it is the exercise of a gentle- old lady! Pendennis, Pendennis—, how she 
man. Hang it ! Pll take some lessons of Cap- j spoke the word ! Emily, Emily I how good, how 
tain Costigan. Goalong, Rebecca—up the hill, ' noble, how beautiful, how perfect she is !” 

-- 

MISS REBECCA SHARP. 

From “Vanity Fair.” 


ISS SHARP’S father was an artist, and in ' 
that quality had given lessons of drawing j 
at Miss Pinkerton’s school. He was a ! 
clever man; a pleasant companion, a careless 
student; with a great propensity for running into ' 
debt, and a partiality for the tavern. When he 
was drunk he used to beat his wife and daughter ; 
and the next morning, with a headache, he would 
rail at the world for its neglect of his genuis, and 
abuse, with a good deal of cleverness, and some¬ 
times with perfect reason, the fools, his brother 
painters. As it was with the utmost difficulty 
that he could keep himself, and as he owed money 
for a mile about Soho, where he lived, he thought 
to better his circumstances by marrying a young 
woman of the French nation, who was by profes¬ 
sion an opera-girl. The humble calling of her 
female parent Miss Sharp never alluded to, but 
used to state subsequently that the Entrechats 
were a noble family of Gascony, and took great 
pride in her descent from them. And curious it 
is that as she advanced in life this young lady’s 
ancestors increased in rank and splendor. 

Rebecca’s mother had had some education some¬ 
where, and her daughter spoke French with purity, 
and a Parisian accent. It was in those days 
rather a rare accomplishment, and led to her 
engagement with the orthodox Miss Pinkerton. 
For the mother being dead, her father finding 
himself not likely to recover after his third attack 
of deliriinn tremens, wrote a manly and pathetic 
letter to Miss Pinkerton, recommending the or¬ 
phan child to her protection ; and so descended 
to the grave, after two bailiffs had quarreled over 
his corpse. Rebecca was seventeen when she 
came to Chiswick, and was bound over as an j 
articled pupil; her duties being to talk French, 
and her privileges to live scot-free, and with 
a few guineas a year to gather scraps of knowl- i 


edge from the professors who attended the 
school. 

She was small and slight in person ; pale, sandy- 
haired, and with eyes habitually cast down ; when 
they looked up, they were very large, odd, and 
attractive; so attractive, that the Reverend Mr. 
Crisp, fresh from Oxford, and curate to the Vicar 
of Chiswick, Reverend Mr. Flowerdew, fell in 
love with Miss Sharp, being shot dead by a glance 
from her eyes which were fired all the way across 
Chiswick Church, from the school-pew to the 
reading-desk. This infatuated young man used 
sometimes to take tea with Miss Pinkerton, to 
whom he had been presented by his mamma, and 
actually proposed something like marriage in an 
intercepted note, which the one-eyed apple woman 
was charged to deliver. Mrs. Crisp was sum¬ 
moned from Buxton, and abruptly carried off her 
darling boy; but the idea even of such an eagle 
in the Chiswick dovecote caused a great flutter in 
the breast of Miss Pinkerton, who would have 
sent away Miss Sharp but that she was bound to 
her under a forfeit; and who never could thor¬ 
oughly believe the young lady’s protestations that 
she had never exchanged a single word with Mr. 
Crisp, except under her own eyes on the two 
occasions when she had met him at tea. 

By the side of many tall and bouncing young 
ladies in the establishment, Rebecca Sharp looked 
like a child. But she had the dismal precocity 
of poverty. Many a dun had she talked to, and 
turned away from her father’s door; many a 
tradesman had she coaxed and wheedled into 
good humor, and into the granting of one meal 
more. She sat commonly with her father, who 
was very jiroud of her wit, and heard the talk of 
many of his wild companions—often ill-suited for 
a girl to hear. But she had never been a girl, 
she said ; she had been a woman since she was 











WILLIAM MAKEPEACE TIIACKERAV. 


191 



eight years old. Oh, why did Miss Pinkerton let 
such a dangerous bird into her cage. 

The fact is, the old lady believed Rebecca to I 
be the meekest creature in 
the world ; so admirably, 
on the occasions when her 
father brought her to Chis¬ 
wick, used Rebecca to per¬ 
form the part of an ingenue, 
and only a year before the 
arrangement by which Re¬ 
becca had been admitted 
into her house, and when 
Rebecca was sixteen years 
old. Miss Pinkerton majes¬ 
tically, and with a little 
speech, made her a present 
of a doll—which was, by 
the way, the confiscated 
property of Miss Swindle, 
discovered surreptitiouslv 
nursing it in school-hours. 

How the father and 
daughter laughed as they 
trudged home together 
after the evening party; 
and how Miss Pinkerton 
would have raged had she 
seen the caricature of her¬ 
self which the little mimic, 

Rebecca, managed to make 
out of her doll. Becky 
used to go through dia¬ 
logues with it; it formed 
the delight of Newman 
Street, Gerard Street, and 
the artists’ quarters; and 
the young painters, when 
they came to take their gin- 
and-water with their lazy, 
di.ssolute, clever, jovial 
senior, used regularly to 
ask if Miss Pinkerton was 
at home. Once Rebecca had the honor to pass 
a few days at Chiswick, after which she brought 
back Jemima, and erected another doll as Mi.ss 


Jemmy; for though that honest creature had 
made and given her jelly and cake enough for 
three children, and a seven-shilling piece at part¬ 


iiECKY Sharp. 

ing, the girl’s sense of ridicule was far stronger 
than her gratitude, and she sacrificed Miss Jemmy 
(jiiite as pitilessly as her sister. 
















193 


WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 


THOMAS NEWCOMB ANSWERS. 
From “The Newcomes.” 


O, weeks passed away, during which our 
dear old friend still remained with us. 
His mind was gone at intervals, but would 
rally feebly ; and with his consciousness returned 


his love, his simplicity, his sweetness. He would 
talk French with Madame de Florae ; at which 


time his memory appeared to awaken with sur¬ 
prising vividne.ss, his cheek flushed and he was a 
youth again : a youth all love and hope—a stricken 
old man with a beard as white as snow covering his 
noble, care-worn face. At 
such times he called her 
by her Christian name of 
Leonore; he addressed 
courtly old words of regard 
and kindness to the aged 
lady. Anon he wandered 
in his talk, and spoke to 
her as if they still were 
young. Now, as in those 
early days, his heart was 
pure; no anger remained 
in it; no guile tainted it; 
only peace and good-will 

dwelt in it. 

The days went on, and 
our hopes, raised sometimes, 
began to flicker and fall. 
One evening the Colonel 
left his chair for his bed in 
pretty good spirits, but 
])assed a disturbed night, 
and the next morning was 
too w^eak to rise. Then he 
remained in his bed, and 
his friends visited him there. 
One afternoon he asked for 
his little gown-boy, and the 
child was brought to him, 
and sat by his bed with a 
very awe-stricken face ; and 
then gathered courage, and 
tried to amuse him by tell¬ 
ing him how it was a half¬ 
holiday, and they were hav¬ 
ing a cricket-match with 
the St. Peter’s boys in 
the green, and the Gray 
Friars was in and win¬ 
ning. The Colonel quite understood about it; 
he would like to see the game ; he had played 




Colonel Newcome. 

















WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 


193 


many a game on that green when he was a boy. 
He grew excited. Clive dismissed his father’s lit¬ 
tle friend, and put a sovereign into his hand; and 
away he ran to say that Codd Colonel had come 
into a fortune, and to buy tarts, and to see the 
match out. 

After the child had gone, Thomas Newcome 
began to wander more and more.' He talked 
louder; he gave the word of command ; spoke 
Hindustanee, as if to his men. Then he spoke 
French rapidly, seizing a hand that was near him, 
and crying Toujours, ioujours/" But it was 
Ethel’s hand which he took. Ethel and Clive 
and the nurse were in the room with him. The 
nurse came to us, who were sitting in the adjoin¬ 
ing apartment; Madame de Florae was there, 
with my wife and Bayham. At the look in the 
woman’s countenance Madame de Florae started 
up. “ He is very bad ; he wanders a great deal,” 
the nurse whispered. The French lady fell in¬ 
stantly on her knees, and remained rigid in prayer. 

Some time afterward Ethel came in with a 
scared face to our pale group. “ He is calling 
for you again, dear lady,” she said to Madame de 


Florae, who was still kneeling; “and said just 
now he wanted Pendennis to take care of his boy. 
He will not know you.” She hid her tears as she 
spoke. 

She went into the room where Clive was at the 
bed’s foot. The old man within it talked on 
rapidly for awhile; then he would sigh and be 
still. Once more I heard him say hurriedly, 
“Take care of him while I am in India,” and 
then with a heart-rending voice he called out 
“ Leonore, Leonore !” She was kneeling by his 
side now. The patient’s voice sank into faint 
murmurs; only a moan now and then announced 
that he was not asleep. 

At the usual evening hour the chapel bell began 
to toll, and Thomas Newcome’s hands outside the 
bed feebly beat time. And just as the last bell 
struck, a peculiar sweet smile shone over his face, 
and he lifted up his head a little, and quickly said 
Adsum /” and fell back. It was the word we 
used at school when the names were called ; and 
lo, he, whose heart was as that of a little child, 
had answered to his name, and stood in the pres¬ 
ence of The Master. 




OLI) FABLES WITH A NEW PURPOSE. 
Introduction to “The Newcomes.’’ 


CROW, who had flown away with a cheese 
from a dairy window, sat perched on a 
tree, looking down at a great, big frog in 
a pool underneath him. The frog’s hideous, large 
eyes were goggling out of his head in a manner 
which appeared quite ridiculous to the old black¬ 
amoor, wmo watched the splay-footed, slimy 
wretch with that peculiar grim humor belonging 
to crows. Not far from the frog a fat ox was 
browsing; while a few lambs frisked about the 
jmeadow, or nibbled the grass and buttercups 
there. 

Who should come into the farther end of the 
field but a wolf! He was so cunningly dressed up 
in sheep’s clothing that the very lambs did not 
know master w'olf; nay, one of them, whose dam 
the wolf had just eaten, after which he had thrown 
her skin over his shoulders, ran up innocently 


toward the devouring monster, mistaking him for 
mamma. 

“ He-he! ” says a fox, sneaking round the 
hedge-paling, over which the tree grew whereupon 
the crow was perched, looking down on the frog 
who was staring with his goggle eyes fit to burst 
with envy, and croaking abuse at the ox. “ How 
absurd those lambs are! Yonder silly little 
knock-kneed baah-ling does not know the old 
wolf dressed in the sheep’s fleece. He is the same 
old rogue who gobbled up little Red Riding 
Hood’s grandmother for lunch, and swallowed 
little Red Riding Hood for supper. He-he ! ” 

An owl, that was hidden in the hollow of the 
tree, woke up. “O ho, master fox,” says she, 
“ I can not see you, but I smell you! If some 
folks like lambs, other folks like geese,” says the 
owl. 


13 







194 


WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 


“And your ladyship is fond of mice,” says 
the fox. 

“The Chinese eat them,” says the owl, “and 
I have read that they are very fond of dogs,” con¬ 
tinued the old lady. 

“I wish they would exterminate every cur of 
them off the face of the earth,” said the fox. 

“And I have also read in works of travel that 
the French eat frogs,” continued the owl. “Aha, 
my friend Crapaud ! are you there ? That was 
a very pretty concert we sang together last 
night.” 

“If the French devour my brethren, the Eng¬ 
lish eat beef,” croaked out the frog—“great, big, 
brutal, bellowing oxen ! ” 

“Ho, whoo ! ” says the owl, “I have heard 
that the English are toad-eaters, too ! ” 

“ But who ever heard of them eating an owl or 
a fox, madam?” says Reynard, “or their sitting 
down and taking a crow to pick,” adds the polite 
rogue, w'ith a bow to the old crow, who was 
perched above them with the cheese in his mouth. 
“ We are privileged animals, all of us ; at least, 
we never furnish dishes for the odious orgies of 
man.” 

“lam the bird of wisdom,” says the owl; “I 
was the companion of Pallas Minerva; I am fre¬ 
quently represented in the Egyptian monuments.” 

“ I have seen you over the British barn-doors,” 
said the fox, with a grin. “You have a deal of 
scholarship, Mrs. Owl. I know a thing or two 
myself; but am, I confess it, no scholar—a mere 
man of the world—a fellow that lives by his wits 
—a mere country gentleman.” 

“ You sneer at scholarship,” continues the owl, 
with a sneer on her venerable face. “I read a 
good deal of a night.” 

“When I am engaged deciphering the cocks 
and hens at roost,” says the fox. 

“ It’s a pity for all that 5'ou can’t read; that 
board nailed over my head would give you some 
information.” 

“ What does it say ? ” says the fox. 

“ I can’t spell in the daylight,” answered the 
owl; and, giving a yawn, went back to sleep till 
evening in the hollow of her tree. 

“ A fig for her hieroglyphics ! ” said the fox. 


looking up at the crow in the tree. “ What airs 
our slow neighbor gives herself!” 

The little lambkin was lying unsuspiciously at 
the side of the wolf in fleecy hosiery, who did 
not as yet molest her, being replenished with the 
mutton, her mamma. But now the wolf’s eyes 
began to glare, and his sharp, white teeth to show, 
and he rose up with a growl, and began to think 
he should like lamb for supper. 

“ What large eyes you have got! ” bleated out 
the lamb, with rather a timid look. 

“ The better to see you with, my dear.” 

“ What large teeth you have got ! ” 

“ The better to—” 

At this moment such a terrific yell filled the 
field that all its inhabitants started with terror. It 
w'as from a donkey, who had somehow got a lion’s 
skin, and now came in at the hedge, pursued by 
some men and boys with sticks and guns. 

When the wolf in sheep’s clothing heard the 
bellow of the ass in the lion’s skin, fancying that 
the monarch of the forest was near, he ran away 
as fast as his disguise would let him. When the 
ox heard the noise, he dashed round the meadow 
ditch, and with one trample of his hoof squashed 
the frog who had been abusing him. When the 
crow saw the people with guns coming, he in¬ 
stantly dropped the cheese out of his mouth, and 
took to wing. When the fox saw the cheese drop, 
he immediately made a jump at it (for he knew 
the donkey’s voice, and that his asinine bray was 
not a bit like his royal master’s roar), and, mak¬ 
ing for the cheese, fell into a steel-trap, which 
snapped off his tail; without which he was ob¬ 
liged to go into the world, pretending, forsooth, 
that it was the fashion not to w’ear tails any more, 
and that the fox-party were better without ’em. 

Meanwhile, a boy with a stick came up, and 
belabored master donkey until he roared louder 
than ever. The wolf, with the sheep’s clothing 
draggling about his legs, could not run fast, and 
was detected and shot by one of the men. The 
blind old owl, whirring out of the hollow tree, 
quite amazed at the disturbance, flounced into the 
face of a plow-boy, who knocked her down with a 
pitchfork. The butcher came and quietly led off 
the ox and the lamb; and the farmer, finding the 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 


195 


fox’s brush in the- trap, hung it over his mantel¬ 
piece and always bragged that he had been in at 

his death. . .. 

This, then, is to be a story, may it please you, 
in which jackdaws will wear peacock’s feathers, 
and awaken the just ridicule of the peacocks ; 
in which, while every justice is done to the pea¬ 
cocks themselves, the splendor of their plumage, 
the gorgeousness of their dazzling necks, and the 
magnificence of their tails, exception will yet be 
taken to the absurdity of their rickety strut, and 
the foolish discord of their pert squeaking; in 
which lions in love will have their claws pared by 
sly virgins; in which rogues will sometimes 
triumph, and honest folks, let us hope, come by 
their own ; in which there will be black crape and 


LOYALTY ^ 

On account of his severe strictures upon the Georges, 
confuted at a dinner given to him in Edinburgh in 1857. 

HAD thought that in these lectures I had 
spoken in terms not of disrespect or un¬ 
kindness, and in feelings and in language 
not un-English, of Her Majesty the Queen; and 
wherever I have had to mention her name, 
whether it was upon the banks of the Clyde or 
upon those of the Mississippi, whether it was in 
New England or in Old England, whether it was 
in some great hall in London to the artisans of 
the suburbs of the metropolis, or to the politer 
audiences of the western end,—wherever I had to 
mention her name it was received with shouts of 
applause and with the most hearty cheers. And 
why was this? It was not on account of the 
speaker; it was on account of the truth; it was 
because the English and the Americans—the 
people of New Orleans a year ago, the people of 
Aberdeen a week ago—all received and acknowl¬ 
edged with due allegiance the great claims to 
honor which that lady has who worthily holds 
that great and awful situation which our Queen 
occupies. It is my loyalty that is called in ques- 


white favors; in which there will be tears under 
orange-flower wreaths and jokes in mourning 
coaches; in which there will be dinners of herbs 
with contentment and without; and banquets of 
stalled oxen where there is care and hatred—ay, 
and kindness and friendship, too, along with the 
feast. It does not follow that all men are honest 
because they are poor; and I have known some 
who were friendly and generous, although they 
had plenty of money. There are some great land¬ 
lords who do not grind down their tenants; there 
are actually bishops who are not hypocrites; there 
are liberal men even among the Whigs, and the 
Radicals themselves are not all aristocrats at 
heart. 


rO TRUTH. 

Thackeray was accused of disloyalty. This charge he thus 

tion, and it is my loyalty that I am trying to 
plead to you. Suppose, for example, in America 
—in Philadelphia or in New York—that I had 
spoken about George IV in terms of praise and 
affected reverence: do you believe they would 
have hailed his name with cheers, or have heard 
it with anything like respect? They would have 
laughed in my face if I had so spoken of him. They 
know what I know and you know, and what num¬ 
bers of squeamish loyalists who affect to cry out 
against my lectures know%—that that man’s life 
was not a good life; that that king was not such a 
king as we ought to love, or regard, or honor. 
And I believe, for my part, that in speaking the 
truth, as we hold it, of a bad sovereign, we are 
paying no disrespect at all to a good one. Far 
from it. On the contrary, we degrade our own 
honor and the sovereign’s by unduly and unjustly 
praising him ; and the mere slaverer and flatterer 
is one who comes forward, as it were, with flash 
notes, and i)ays with false coin his tribute to 
Caesar. 











= 


©« f)« 0 r)«15«IT) ® rKO n ® p) r; FKf) n © f) IT) f) 0 ri If) f) F) r) r) f5 r 

1 = 

1 



5 = 

=1 












EDWARD P>UL\WZR-LVTTO'N. 

NOVELIST, POET, AND DRAMATIST. 

DWARD BULWER was born in Norfolk, England, in 1805. He 
was a petted child of delicate health, and was prepared for Cam¬ 
bridge by his mother. At college he won the chancellor’s medal 
by a poem, and throughout his early life wrote continually, princi¬ 
pally poems and stories, which have now fallen out of public notice. 
His first work to attract attention was “ Pelham,” a novel which 
was published when he was twenty-three years old. 

He was married in 1827, but unhappiness resulted. He separated from his 
wife nine or ten years later. He was a thorough scholar and wrote with the 
greatest care, supplying in this way what he is thought to have lacked in genius. 
He entered Parliament in 1852, and filled a post in the government for some years, 
and was raised to the peerage as Baron Lytton in 1866. 

His most famous works are his historical novels, “The Last Days of Pompeii” 
and “ Rienzi ” ; his plays. “The Lady of Lyons,” “ Richelieu,” and “ Money.” His 
last published novel, “ Kenelm Chillingly,” is thought by most critics to be his best 
work, although “The Last Days of Pompeii ” is far better known. At his death, in 
1873, he had published some fifty volumes, and left a mass of material, including 
the incomplete story “ Pausanias the Spartan,” which was edited by his son. 

-- 



IN THE ARENA. 


From “The Last Days or Pompeii.” 

Glaucus, an Athenian, falsely convicted of murder, has been condemned to face the lion in the Roman amphithe¬ 
ater armed only with the little “ stilus” with which he is supposed to have slain Apacides. 


HE door swung gratingly back—the gleam 
of spears shot along the wall. 

“ Hlaucus the Athenian, thy time has 
come,” said a loud and clear voice; “the lion 
awaits thee.” 

“I am ready,” said the Athenian. “Brother 


and co-mate, one last embrace ! Bless me—and 
farewell! ” 

The Christian opened his arms ; he clasped the 
young heathen to his breast; he kissed his fore¬ 
head and cheek ; he sobbed aloud ; his tears flowed 
fast and hot over the features of his new friend. 


196 





































EDWARD BULWER-LY'Tl'ON. 


197 


“Oh! could I have converted thee, I had not 
wept. Oh, that I might say to thee, ‘ We two 
shall sup this night in Paradise ! ’ ’’ 

“ It may be so yet,’’ answered the Greek, with a 
tremulous voice. “ They whom death parts now 
may yet meet beyond the grave ; on the earth — 
oh ! the beautiful, the beloved earth, farewell for¬ 
ever ! Worthy officer, I attend you.’’ 

Glaucus tore himself away ; and when he came 
forth into the air, its breath, which though sunless 
was hot and arid, smote witheringly upon him. 
His frame, not yet restored from the effects of the 
deadly draught, shrank and trembled. The offi¬ 
cers supported him. 

“Courage,’’ said one; “thou art young, ac¬ 
tive, well knit. They give thee a weapon 1 
Despair not, and thou mayst yet conquer.” 

Glaucus did not reply; but ashamed of his in¬ 
firmity, he made a desperate and convulsive effort 
and regained the firmness of his nerves. They 
annointed his body, completely naked save by a 
cincture round his loins, placed the stilus (vain 
weapon) in his hand, and led him into the arena. 

And now, when the Greek saw the eyes of 
thousands and tens of thousands upon him, he no 
longer felt that he was mortal. All evidence of 
fear, all fear itself, was gone. A red and haughty 
flush spread over the paleness of his features ; he 
towered aloft to the full of his glorious stature. In 
the elastic beauty of his limbs and form ; in his 
intent but unfrowning brow ; in the high disdain 
and in the indomitable soul which breathed visi¬ 
bly, which spoke audibly, from his attitude, his 
lip, his eye,—he seemed the very incarnation, 
vivid and corporeal, of the valor of his land; of 
the divinity of its worship; at once a hero and a 
god ! 

The murmur of hatred and horror at his crime 
which had greeted his entrance died into the 
silence of involuntary admiration and half-com¬ 
passionate respect; and with a quick and convul¬ 
sive sigh, that seemed to move the whole mass of 
life as if it were one body, the gaze of the specta¬ 
tors turned from the Athenian to a dark, uncouth 
object in the center of the arena. It was the 
grated den of the lion. 

“By Venus, how warm it is!” said Fulvia, 


“yet there is no sun. Would that those stujiid 
sailors could have fastened up that gap in the 
awning ! ” 

“Oh, it is warm indeed. I turn sick—I 
faint ! ” said the wife of Pansa; even her experi¬ 
enced stoicism giving way at the struggle about to 
take place. 

The lion had been kept without food for 
twenty-four hours, and the animal had, during the 
whole morning, testified a singular and restless 
uneasiness, which the keeper had attributed to the 
pangs of hunger. Yet its bearing seemed rather 
that of fear than of rage ; its roar was painful and 
distressed; it hung its head—snuffed the air 
through the bars—then laydown—started again— 
i and again uttered its wild and far-resounding 
cries. And now in its den it lay utterly dumb 
and mute, with distended nostrils forced hard 
against the grating, and disturbing with a heaving 
breath the sand below on the arena. 

The editor’s lip quivered, and his cheek grew 
pale ; he looked anxiously around—hesitated—de¬ 
layed ; the crowd became impatient. Slowly he 
gave the sign ; the keeper, who was behind the 
den, cautiously removed the grating, and the lion 
leaped forth with a mighty and glad roar of release. 
The keeper hastily retreated through the grated 
})assage leading from the arena, and left the lord 
of the forest—and his prey. 

Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give him¬ 
self the firmest posture at the expected rush of the 
lion, with his small and shining weapon raised on 
high, in the faint hope that one well-directed 
thrust (for he knew that he should have time but 
for one) might penetrate through the eye to the 
brain of his grim foe. 

i But to the unutterable astonishment of all, the 
I beast seemed not even aware of the presence of 
the criminal. 

At the first moment of its release it halted 
abruptly in the arena, raised itself half on end, 

’ snuffing the upward air with impatient signs, 

I then suddenly it sprang forward, but not on the 
j Athenian. At half-speed it circled round and 
round the space, turning its vast head from side 
to side with an anxious and perturbed gaze, as if 
seeking some avenue of escape; once or twice it 






198 


EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON. 


endeavored to leap up the parapet that divided it 
from the audience, and on falling uttered rather a 
baffled howl than its deep-toned and kingly roar. 
It evinced no sign either of wrath or hunger; its 
tail drooped along the sand instead of lashing its 
gaunt sides, and its eye, though it wandered at 
times at Glaucus, rolled again listlessly from him. 
At length, as if tired of attempting to escape, it 
crept with a moan into its cage, and once more 
laid itself down to rest. 

The first surprise of the assembly at the apathy 
of the lion soon grew converted into resentment at 
its cowardice; and the populace already merged 
their pity for the fate of Glaucus into angry com¬ 
passion for their disappointment. 

The editor called to the keeper : “ How is this? 
Take the goad, prick him forth, and then close 
the door of the den.” 

As the keeper with some fear, but more aston¬ 
ishment, was preparing to obey, a loud cry was 
heard at one of the entrances of the arena; there 
was a confusion, a bustle,—voices of remonstrance 
suddenly breaking forth, and suddenly silenced at 
the reply. All eyes turned, in wonder at the in¬ 
terruption, toward the quarter of the disturbance ; 
the crowd gave way, and suddenly Sallust ap¬ 
peared on the senatorial benches, his hair dishev¬ 
eled—breathless—heated—half exhausted. He 
cast his eye hastily around the ring. “Remove 
the Athenian ! ” he cried ; “ haste—he is innocent! 
Arrest Arbaces the Egyptian—he is the murderer 
of Apaecides! ” 

“Art thou mad, O Sallust! ” said the praetor, 
rising from his seat. “ What means this raving ? ” 

“ Remove the Athenian !—Quick ! or his blood 
be on your head. Praetor, delay, and you answer 
with your own life to the emperor! I bring with 
me the eye-witness to the death of the priest Apae- 
cides. Room there, stand back, give way. 
People of Pompeii, fix every eye upon Arbaces ; 
there he sits! Room there for the priest 
Calenus! ” 

Pale, haggard, fresh from the jaws of famine and 
of death, his face fallen, his eyes dull as a vulture’s, 
his broad frame gaunt as a skeleton, Calenus was 
supported into the very row in which Arbaces sat. 
His releasers had given him sparingly of food; 


but the chief sustenance that nerved his feeble 
limbs was revenge! 

“The priest Calenus—Calenus!” cried the 
mob. “ It is he I No—it is a dead man ! ” 

“It is the priest Calenus,” said the praetor, 
gravely. “ What hast thou to say ? ” 

“Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apaecides, 
the priest of Isis; these eyes saw him deal the 
blow. It is from the dungeon into which he 
plunged me—it is from the darkness and horror 
of a death by famine—that the gods have raised 
me to proclaim his crime ! Release the Athenian 
—he is innocent 1 ” 

“It is for this, then, that the lion spared him. 
A miracle ! a miracle ! ” cried Pansa. 

“A miracle 1 a miracle 1 ” shouted the people ; 
“ remove the Athenian— Arbaces to the lion ! ” 
And that shout echoed from hill to vale—from 
coast to sea— “ Arbaces to the lion ! ” 

“Officers, remove the accused Glaucus—re¬ 
move, but guard him yet,” said the praetor. 
“The gods lavish their wonders upon this day.” 

The waves of the human sea halted for a mo¬ 
ment to enable Arbaces to count the exact mo¬ 
ment of his doom ! In despair, and in terror which 
beat down even pride, he glanced his eye over the 
rolling and rushing crowd; when, right above 
them, through the wide chasm which had been 
left in the velaria, he beheld a strange and awful 
apparition; he beheld, and his craft restored his 
courage. 

He stretched his hand on high; over his lofty 
brow and royal features there came an expression 
of unutterable solemnity and command. 

“Behold 1 ” he shouted with a voice of thun¬ 
der, which stilled the roar of the crowd : “ Be¬ 

hold how the gods protect the guiltless I The 
fires of the avenging Orcus burst forth against the 
false witness of my accusers ! ” 

The eyes of the crowd followed the gestures of 
the Egyptian, and beheld with dismay a vast vapor 
shooting from the summit of Vesuvius in the form 
of a gigantic pine tree; the trunk, blackness—the 
branches, fire !—a fire that shifted and wavered in 
its hues every moment, now fiercely luminous, now 



EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON. 


199 


of a dull and dying red, that again blazed terrific¬ 
ally forth with intolerable glare ! 

There was a dead, heart-sunken silence, through 
which there suddenly broke the roar of a lion, 
which was echoed back from within the building 
with the sharper and fiercer yells of its fellow- 
beast. Dread seers were they of the Burden of the 
Atmosphere, and wild prophets of the wrath to 
come ! 

Then there arose on high the universal shrieks 
of women ; the men stared at each other, but 
were dumb. At that moment they felt the earth 
shake under their feet; the walls of the theater 
trembled; and beyond in the distance they heard 
the crash of falling roofs; an instant more, and 
the mountain cloud seemed to roll toward them, 
dark and rapid, like a torrent; at the same time 
it cast forth from its bosom a shower of ashes 
mixed with vast fragments of burning stone ! Over 
the crushing vines, over the desolate streets, over 
the amphitheater itself; far and wide with many a 


mighty splash in the agitated sea, fell that awful 
shower ! 

No longer thought the crowd of justice or of 
Arbaces; safety for themselves w’as their sole 
thought. Each turned to fly—each dashing, 
pressing, crushing against the other. Trampling 
recklessly over the fallen, amid groans and oaths 
and prayers and sudden shrieks, the enormous 
crowd vomited itself forth through the numerous 
passages. Whither should they fly? Some, an¬ 
ticipating another earthquake, hastened to their 
homes to load themselves with their more costly 
goods and escape while it was yet time; others, 
dreading the showers of ashes that now fell fast, 
torrent upon torrent, over the streets, rushed under 
the roofs of the nearest houses, or temples, or sheds 
—shelter of any kind—for protection from the 
terrors of the open air. But darker, and larger, 
and mightier spread the cloud above them. It 
j was a sudden and more ghastly Night rushing upon 
1 the realm of Noon ! 












>W?^WO^nWOWoWOWnWO%W<)WoW()Wo^ 






4 '*'"% 




^14 




ANTHONY TROLLOPH. 

A PAINTER OF ACTUAL MEN AND MANNERS. 

NTHONY TROLLOPE was the most productive writer of fiction? 
of his time ; and it is the judgment of most critics that perhaps a 
dozen of his best novels are exceeded in merit only by three or 
four of the best works of Dickens, Thackeray, and George Eliot. 
He differs from these great writers in selecting for his characters^ 
not unusual or strangely individualized personalities, but ordinary 
men and women. There are no deep-dyed villains in his books 
and no astonishing prodigies of intelligence or virtue ; his characters are the men 
and women, particularly clergymen and their families, who can be met with every 
day in English society. 

He was the son of Mrs. Frances Trollope, a somewhat successful novelist,, 
and by her influence obtained a position in the postal service. Here he showed 
unusual capacity, and rose to a position of considerable importance. He was a 
keen sportsman, and delighted in combining his duties as inspector of the postal 
service with the enjoyment of the hunt, and he tells in his “ Autobiography ” some 
interesting stories of the devices by which he could bring this about. 

He wrote several books of travel, describing the countries which he visited in 
the postal service, among which are, “ The West Indies and the Spanish Main,” 
“ North America,” and “Australia.” The first of his novels to come into general 
notice was “ The Warden.” which was followed by some forty others, among which,, 
perhaps, “ Orley Farm,” “La Vendee,” “The Bertrams, ’ “Is He Popenjoy?” and 
the so-called “ Clerical Series,” beginning with “ The Warden ” and closing with 
“The Last Chronicle of Barset,” and including “ Barchester Towers,” represent 
his best works. He died in 1883. 



mm 


A LESSON IN PHILOSOPHY. 
From “ The Last Chronicle of Barset.’ 


IE was sitting saturated with rain,—satu¬ 
rated also with thinking,—and was unob¬ 
servant of anything around him, when he 
was accosted by an old man from Hoggle End, 


with whom he was well acquainted. “Thee be 
wat. Master Crawley,” said the old man. “ Wet! ” 
said Crawley, recalled suddenly back to the reali¬ 
ties of life, “Well,—yes. I am wet. That’s 


200 





















ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 


201 



because it’s raining.” “ Thee be teeming o’ wat. I It’s dogged as does it. It ain’t thinking about 
Hadn’t thee better go whome? ” “ And are not I it.” Then Giles Hoggett withdrew his hand 
you wet also?” said Mr. Crawley, 
looking at the old man, who had 
been at work in the brickfield, and 
who was soaked with mire, and from 
whom there seemed to come a steam 
of muddy mist. “Is it me, yer rev¬ 
erence? I’m wat in course. The 
loikes of us is always wat,—that is, 
barring the insides of us. It comes 
to us natural to have the rheumatics. 

How is one of us to help hisself 
against having on ’em? But there 
ain’t no call for the loikes of you 
to have the rheumatics.” “My 
friend,” said Crawley, who was 
standing on the road,—and as he 
spoke he put out his arm and took 
the brickmaker by the hand, “ there 
is a worse complaint than rheuma¬ 
tism,—there is indeed.” “There’s 
what they call the collerer,” said 
Giles Hoggett, looking up into Mr. 

Crawley’s face. “ I’hat ain’t a-got 
a-hold of yer?” “Ay, and worse 
than the cholera. A man is killed 
all over when he is struck in his 
pride;—and yet he lives.” “May¬ 
be that’s bad enough, too,” said 
Giles, with his hand still held by 
the other. “It is bad enough,” 
said Mr. Crawley, striking his breast 
with his left hand; “it is bad 
enough.” “Tell ’ee what, Master 
Crawley,—and yer reverence mustn’t 
think as I means to be preaching,— 
there ain’t nowt a man can’t bear if 

he’ll only be dogged. You go whome, and i from the clergyman’s, and walked away toward 
think o’ that, and mabe it’ll do ye a good yet. . his home at Hoggle End. 


“It’s Dogged .a.s Does It.” 


-•0^0*- 


THE REVEREND MR. SLOPE. 
From “ Barchester Towers.” 



R. SLOPE soon comforted himself with the 
reflection that, as he had been selected as 
chaplain to the Bishop, it would probably 


be in his power to get the good things in the 
Bishop’s gift without troubling himself about the 
Bishop’s daughter; and he found himself able tO' 













202 


ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 


endure the pangs of rejected love. As he sat him¬ 
self down in the railway carriage, confronting the 
Bishop and Mrs. Proudie, as they started on their 
first journey to Barchester, he began to form in 
his own mind a plan of his future life. He knew 
well his patron’s strong points, but he knew the 
weak ones as well. He understood correctly 
enough to what attempts the new Bishop’s high 
spirit would soar, and he rightly guessed that 
public life would better suit the great man’s taste 
than the small details of diocesan duty. 

He, therefore,—he, Mr. Slope,—would in effect 
be Bishop of Barchester. Such was his resolve ; 
and, to give Mr. Slope his due, he had both 
courage and spirit to bear him out in his resolu¬ 
tion. He knew that he should have a hard battle 
to fight, for the power and patronage of the see 
would be equally coveted by another great mind; 
Mrs. Proudie would also choose to be Bishop of 
Barchester. Slope, however, flattered himself 
that he could out-maneuver the lady. She must 
live much in London, while he would be always 
on the spot. She would necessarily remain igno¬ 
rant of much, while he would know everything 
belonging to the diocese. At first, doubtless, he 
must flatter and cajole, perhaps yield in some 
things ; but he did not doubt of ultimate triumph. 
If all other means failed, he could join the Bishop 
against his wife, inspire courage into the unhappy 
man, lay an axe to the root of the woman’s power, 
and emancipate the husband. 

Such were his thoughts as he sat looking at the 
sleeping pair in the railway carriage, and Mr. 
Slope is not the man to trouble himself with such 
thoughts for nothing. He is possessed of more 
than average abilities, and is of good courage. 
Though he can stoop to fawn—and stoop low 
indeed, if need be—he has still within him the 
power to assume the tyrant; and with the power 
he has certainly the wish. His acquirements are 
not of the highest order; but such as they are, 
they are completely under control, and he knows 


the use of them. He is gifted with a certain kind 
of pulpit eloquence, not likely indeed to be per¬ 
suasive with men, but powerful with the softer sex. 
In his sermons he deals greatly in denunciations, 
excites the minds of his weaker hearers with a not 
unpleasant terror, and leaves the impression on 
their minds that all mankind are in a perilous 
state—and all womankind, too, except those who 
attend regularly to the evening lectures in Baker 
Street. 

Mr. Slope is tall, and not ill-made. His feet 
and hands are large, as has ever been the case with 
all his family ; but he has a broad chest and wide 
shoulders to carry off these excrescences; and on 
the whole his figure is good. His countenance, 
however, is not specially prepossessing. His hair 
is lank, and of a dull, pale reddish hue. It is 
always formed into three straight lumpy masses, 
each brushed with admirable precision, and ce¬ 
mented with much grease; two of them adhere 
closely to the sides of his face, and the other lies 
at right-angles above them. He wears no whiskers, 
and is always scrupulously shaven. His face is 
nearly of the same color as his hair, though per¬ 
haps a little redder. It is not unlike beef; beef, 
however, one would say, of a bad quality. His 
forehead is capacious and-high, but square and 
heavy, and unpleasantly shining. His mouth is 
large, though pale and bloodless; and his big 
prominent eyes inspire anything but confidence. 
His nose, however, is his redeeming feature; it is 
pronounced, straight, and well-formed; though I 
myself should have liked it better did it not 
possess a somewhat spongy, porous appearance, as 
though it had been cleverly formed out of a red- 
colored cork. 

I never could endure to shake hands with Mr. 
Slope. A cold, clammy perspiration exudes from 
him; the small drops are ever to be seen on his 
brow, and his friendly grasp is unpleasant.—• 
Such is Mr. Slope. 




♦ 3 ^ ♦ ♦ 


WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS. 

A GENIUS IN STORY-TELLING. 

HAVE always held the old-fashioned opinion,” says Wilkie Collins, 
“that the primary object of a work of fiction should be to tell a 
story ” : and it is as a story-teller that he achieved his success. 

He was born in 1824. and received his education at Highbury. 
He lived in Italy, however, for two years in his teens, and during 
that time acquired a knowledge of French and Italian. His 
father was a distinguished landscape painter, and he was closely 
related to other noted artists. Collins tried business for a few years, and afterward 
studied law, but never practised the profession. His first novel was not successful, 
and it was not until he formed a close friendship with Charles Dickens that he 
really began to make his way in literature. Dickens invited him to join in the 
work upon “ Household Words,” and encouraged him in many ways. At one time 
he undertook to promote social reform, and wrote “Man and Wife,” “The New 
Magdalen,” and “ Heart and Science,” with this view in mind. They were not suc¬ 
cessful, either from a philanthropic or an artistic point of view, and the critic Swin¬ 
burne has commented upon them in the jocular couplet : 

“ What brought good Wilkie’s genius nigh perdition ? 

Some demon whispered—‘ Wilkie have a mission.’ ’’ 

The intricacy of his plots is likened to a game of chess. His stories usually 
turn upon the discovery of a secret, the tracing of a crime, or the regaining of a 
fortune. His novels have two sets of characters—one pursuing, the other oppos¬ 
ing the accomplishment of the purpose. The plan is well carried out, and perhaps 
no novelist has been read more widely or with greater pleasure. He died in 1889. 

Collins’s masterpieces are “The Moonstone” and “The Woman in White.” 
Some others are “No Name,” “Armadale,” “Man and Wife,” “Heart and 
Science,” and “I Say No ! ” A number of his books have been translated into 
French, Italian, Danish, and Russian, and continue as popular abroad as at 
home. 



203 

















204 


WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS. 


THE COETxXT AND COUNTESS FOSCO. 
From “The Woman in White.” 


EVER before have I beheld such a change 
produced in a woman by her marriage as 
has been produced in Madame Fosco. As 
Eleanor Fairlie (aged seven-and-thirty), she was 
always talking pretentious nonsense, and always 
worrying the unfortunate men with every small 
exaction which a vain and foolish woman can 
impose on long-suffering male humanity. As 
Madame Fosco (aged three-and-forty), she sits for 
hours together without saying a word, frozen up 
in the strangest manner in herself. The hideously 
ridiculous love-locks which used to hang on either 
side of her face are now replaced by stiff little 
rows of very short curls, of the sort that one sees 
in old-fashioned wigs, A plain, matronly cap 
covers her head, and makes her look, for the first 
time in her life, since I remember her, like a de¬ 
cent woman. . . , Clad in quiet black or 

gray gowns, made high round the throat, dresses 
that she would have laughed at, or screamed at, 
as the whim of the moment inclined her, in her 
maiden days—she sits speechless in corners ; her 
dry white hands (so dry that the pores of her skin 
look chalky) incessantly engaged either in monot¬ 
onous embroidery work, or in rolling up endless 
little cigarettes for the Count’s own particular 
smoking. 

On the few occasions when her cold blue eyes 
are off her work, they are generally turned on her 
husband, with the look of mute submissive inquiry 
which we are all familiar with in the eyes of a 
faithful dog. The only approach to an inward 
thaw which I have yet detected under her outer 
covering of icy constraint, has betrayed itself, 
once or twice, in the form of a suppressed tigerish 
jealousy of any woman in the house (the maids 
included) to whom the Count speaks, or on whom 
he looks with anything approaching to special in¬ 
terest or attention. Except in this one particular, 
she is always—morning, noon, and night, indoors, 
and out, fair weather or foul—as cold as a statue, 
and as impenetrable as the stone out of which it 
is cut. 

For the common purposes of society, the extra¬ 
ordinary change thus produced in her is beyond 


all doubt a change for the better, seeing that it 
has transformed her into a civil, silent, unobtru¬ 
sive woman, who is never in the way. How far 
she is really reformed or deteriorated in her secret 
self is another question. I have once or twice 
seen sudden changes of expression on her pinched 
lips, and heard sudden inflections of tone in her 
calm voice, which have led me to suspect that her 
present state of suppression may have sealed up 
something dangerous in her nature, \vhich used to 
evaporate harmlessly in the freedom of her former 
life. And the magician who has wrought this 
wonderful transformation—the foreign husband 
who has tamed this once wayward Englishwoman 
till her own relations hardly know her again—the 
Count.himself! What of the Count? 

This, in two words : He looks like a man who 
could tame anything. If he had married a tigress 
instead of a woman, he would have tamed the 
tigress. . . . How am I to describe him? 

There are peculiarities in his personal appearance, 
his habits, and his amusements, which I should 
blame in the boldest terms, or ridicule in the most 
merciless manner, if I had seen them in another 
man. What is it that makes me unable to blame 
them, or to ridicule them in hi?n? 

For example, he is immensely fat. Before this 
time I have always especially disliked corpulent 
humanity. I have always maintained that the 
popular notion of connecting excessive grossness 
of size and excessive good-humor as inseparable 
allies, was equivalent to declaring, either that no 
people but amiable people ever got fat, or that the 
accidental addition of so many pounds of flesh 
has a directly favorable influence over the disposi¬ 
tion of the person on whose body they accumulate. 
I have invariably combated both these absurd as¬ 
sertions by quoting examples of fat people who 
were as mean, vicious, and cruel, as the leanest 
and the worst of their neighbors. . . . Here, 

nevertheless, is Count Fosco, as fat as Henry the 
Eighth himself, established in my favor, at one 
day’s notice, without let or hindrance from his 
now odious corpulence. Marvelous indeed ! 






WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS. 


205 


OZIAS MIDWINTER. 

From “ Arm.adai.k.” 



el HEN I awoke in the morning, I found a 

_J| sturdy old man with a fiddle sitting on 

one side of me, and two performing dogs 
on the other. Experience had made 
me too sharp to tell the truth when 
the man put his first questions. He 
didn’t press them—he gave me a 
good breakfast out of his knapsack 
and he let me romp with the dogs. 

‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, when 
lie had got my confidence in this 
manner, ‘you want three things, my 
man: You want a new father, a 
new family, and a new name. I’ll 
be your father; I’ll let you have the 
dogs for your brothers; and, if 
you’ll promise to be very careful of 
it, I’ll give you my own name into 
the bargain. Ozias Midwinter, ju¬ 
nior, you have had a good breakfast— 
if you want a good dinner, come 
along with me ! ’ He got up, the 
dogs trotted after him, and I trotted 
after the dogs. Who was my new 
father? you will ask. A half-breed 
gypsy, sir; a drunkard, a ruffian, 
and a thief—and the best friend I 
have ever had! Isn’t a man your 
friend when he gives you your food, 
your shelter, and your education? 

Ozias Midwinter taught me to dance 
the Highland fling, to throw somer¬ 
saults, to walk on stilts, and to sing 
.songs to his fiddle. Sometimes we 
roamed the country and performed 
at fairs. Sometimes we tried the 
large towns, and enlivened bad com- 
pany over its ciqis. I was a nice, lively 
little boy of eleven years old—and 
bad company, the women especially, 
took a fancy to me and my little feet. I was 
vagabond enough to like the life. The dogs and 
I lived together, ate and drank and slept together. 

I can’t think of those poor little four-footed 
brothers of mine, even now, without a choking 


in the throat. Many is the beating we three 
took together; many is the hard day’s dancing 
we did together on the cold hillside. I’m not 


Ozi.^s Midwinter, Senior .\nd Junior. 

trying to distress you, sir; I’m only.telling you 
the truth. The life with all its hardships was a 
life that fitted me, and the half-breed gypsy who 
gave me his name, ruffian as he was, was a 
ruffian I liked.” 















WILLIAM BLACK. 

NOVELIST OF THE SCOTTISH FIORDS AND ISLANDS 

ERHAPS no living novelist writes for a larger circle of delighted 
readers than does William Black. Since his twenty-third year his 
home has been in London, but he was born in Glasgow, in 1841, 
and from his youth displayed that love of nature and close observa¬ 
tion of natural phenomena which has filled his books with the most 
accurate descriptions of nature in her various moods that can be 
found in all literature. 

He spent about ten years of his life as an editor and correspondent of news¬ 
papers, before devoting himself entirely to literature. He traveled much, and 
devoted himself with enthusiasm to out-door sports. His love for yachting in 
Scottish waters made him so familiar with that complicated coast-line that a Scotch 
skipper once told him that should literature fail him he could make a living as 
pilot in the western highlands. The fidelity of his descriptions of northern Scotland 
has brought to that country an army of tourists, who have, to some extent, robbed 
it of its attractions. He has written many novels, the most successful of which 
are: “A Princess of Thule,” “A Daughter of Heth,” “In Far Lochaber,” “ Mac- 
leod of Dare,” and “Madcap Violet.” “ White Wings,” the “Strange Adventures 
of a Phaeton,” and “Shandon Bells,” are also widely known. 

Mr. Black’s style is always the same, and it could almost be said that the same 
characters, under different names, move through his different stories ; but they are 
none the less delightful, and if his young ladies are a little too perfect, and their 
aged guardians a trifle over-indulgent, and the Scotch Highlanders miraculously true 
and loyal, they are the kind of people whom we like to know, and we come to 
wish that we could have them In real life as well as in Black’s novels. 




A RIDE OVER SCOTTISH MOORS. 
From “Adventurks of a Phaeton.” 


HAT was a pretty drive through Annandale. 
As you leave Moffat the road gradually 
ascends into the region of the hills; and 


206 


down below you lies a great valley, with the river 
Annan running through it, and the town of Moffat 
itself getting smaller in the distance. You catch 



























WILLIAM BLACK. 


207 


a glimmer of the blue peaks of Westmoreland 
lying far away in the blue south, half hid amidst 
silver haze. The hills around you increase in size, 
and yet you would not recognize the bulk of the 
great round slopes but for those minute dots that 
you can make out to be sheep, and for an occa¬ 
sional wasp-like creature that you can suppose to 
be a horse. 

The evening draws on. The yellow light on 
the slopes becomes warmer. You arrive at a great 
circular chasm which is called by the country 
folks the Devil’s Beef-tub—a mighty hollow, the 
western sides of which are steeped in a soft purple 
shadow, while the eastern slopes burn yellow in 
the sunlight. Far away, down in that misty pur¬ 
ple, you can see tents of gray, and these are masses 
of slate uncovered by grass. The descent seems 
too abrupt for cattle, and yet there are faint specks 
which may be sheep. There is no house, not even 
a farm-house, near; and all traces of Moffat and 
its neighborhood have long been left out of sight. 

But what is the solitude of this place to that of 
the wild and lofty region you enter when you 
reach the summit of the hill? Far away on every 
side of you stretch miles of lonely moorland, with 
the shoulders of the more distant hills reaching 
down in endless succession into the western sky. 
There is no sign of life in this wild place. The 
stony road over which you drive was once a mail- 
coach road; nowit is overgrown with grass. A 
few old stakes, rotten and tumbling, show where 
it was necessary at one time to place a protection 
against the sudden descents on the side of the 
road ; but now the road itself seems lapsing back 
into moorland. It is up in this wilderness of 
heather and wet moss that the Tweed takes its 
rise; but we could hear no trickling of any stream 


A SECRET 
From “A Daui 

EXT morning there was a great commotion 
in Saltcoats. Despite the fierce gusts of 
wind that were still blowing, accompanied 
by squally showers of rain, numbers of people 


to break the profound and melancholy silence. 
There was not even a shepherd’s hut visible ; and 
we drove on in silence, scarcely daring to break 
the charm of the utter loneliness of the place. 

The road twists round to the right. Before us 
a long valley is seen, and we guess that it receives 
the waters of the Tweed. Almost immediately 
afterward we come upon a tiny rivulet some two 
feet in width—either the young Tweed itself or 
one of its various sources ; and as we drive on in 
the gathering twilight, toward the valley, it seems 
as though we were accompanied by innumerable 
streamlets trickling down to the river. The fire 
of sunset goes out in the west, but over there in 
the clear green-white of the east a range of hills 
still glowswith a strange roseate purple. We hear 
the low murmuring of the Tweed in the silence of 
the valley. We get down among the lower-lying 
hills, and the neighborhood of the river seems to 
have drawn to it thousands of wild creatures. 
There are plover calling and whirling over the 
marshy levels. There are black-cock and gray- 
hen dusting themselves in the road before us, and 
waiting until we are quite near them before they 
wing their straight flight up to the heaths above. 
Far over us, in the clear green of the sky, a brace 
of wild ducks go swiftly past. A weasel glides out 
and over the gray stones by the roadside; and 
farther along the bank there are young rabbits 
watching, and trotting, and watching again, as the 
phaeton gets nearer to them. And then as the 
deep rose-purple of the eastern hills fades away, 
and all the dark-green valley of the Tweed lies 
under the cold silver-gray of the twilight, we 
reach a small and solitary inn, and are almost sur¬ 
prised to hear once more the sound of a human 
voice. 


F THE SEA. 

TER OF HeTH.” 

were out on the long stretch of brown sand lying 
south of the town. Mischief had been at work on 
the sea over night. Fragments of barrels, bits of 
spars, and other evidences of a wreck were being 







2o8 


WILLIAM BLACK. 


knocked about on the waves; and two smacks had j 
«ven put out to see if any larger remains of the j 
lost vessel or vessels were visible. Mr. M’Hepry ! 
was early abroad ; for he had gone into the town 
to get a messenger, and so he heard the news. At 
last, amid the gossiping of the neighbors, he 
learned that a lad had just been summoned by a 
certain Mrs. Kilbride to go upon an errand to 
Airlie, and he resolved to secure his services to 
carry the message. Eventually he met the lad on 
his way to the moorland village; and then it 
turned out that the errand was merely to carry a 
letter to Miss Cassilis, at the Manse. 

“ But Miss Cassilis is at my house,” said Mr. 
M’Henry; “give me the letter, and gang ye on 
to the Man.se, and ask Mr. Cassilis to come doon 
here.” 

So the lad departed, and the letter was taken up 
and placed on the table where Coquette was to 
have her breakfast. She came down, looking very 
])ale, but would give no exjilanation of how she 
came to be out on such a night. She thanked 
them for having sent for her uncle, and sat down 
at the table, but ate nothing. Then she saw the 
letter, and, with a quick, pained flush of color 
leaping to her cheeks, she took it up, and opened 
it with trembling fingers. Then she read these 
words : 

“ Dearest: I can not exact from you the sacri¬ 
fice of your life. Remorse and misery for all the 
rest of our years would be the penalty to both of 
us by your going with me to-night, even though 
you might put a brave face on the matter, and 
conceal your anguish. I can not let you suffer 
that. Coquette. I will leave for America by my¬ 
self; and I will never attempt to see you again. 
That promise I have broken before; but it will 
not be broken this time. Good-bye, Coquette. 
IMy earnest hope is that you will not come to Salt¬ 
coats to-night; and in that case, this letter will be 
forwarded to you in the morning. Forgive me, 
if you can, for all the suffering I have caused you. 

I will never forget you, darling, but I will never 
see England or you again. 

“ Earlthorpe.” 

There was almost a look of joy on her face. 

“ So I did not vex him,” she thought, “ by keep¬ 
ing him waiting. And he has conquered too : 
and he will think better of himself, and of me. 


away over there for many years to come, if he 
does not forget all about Airlie.” 

And this reference to Airlie recalled the thought 
of her uncle, and of his meeting with her. As 
the time drew near for his approach, she became 
more and more downcast. When at last the old 
man came into the room where she was sitting 
alone, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and she 
dared not raise them. He went over to her, and 
placed his hand on her head. 

“What is all this, Catherine? Did you miss 
your way last night? What made ye go out on 
such a night, without saying a word to anyone ? ” 

She replied in a low voice, which was yet stu¬ 
diously distinct, “Yesterday afternoon I went 
away from the Manse, not intending to go back.” 

The minister made a slight gesture as if some 
twinge had shot across his heart, and then, looking 
at her in a sad and grave way, be said ; 

“ I did not think I had been unkind to you, 
Catherine.” 

This was too much for Coquette. It broke 
down the obduracy with which she had been 
vainly endeavoring to fortify herself ; and she fell 
at the feet of her uncle, and, with wild tears and 
sobs, told him all that had happened, and begged 
him to go away and leave her, for she had become 
a stranger and an outcast. 

Stunned as the old man was by these revela¬ 
tions, he forgot to express his sense of her guilt. 
He saw only before him the daughter of his own 
brother—a girl who had scarce a friend in the 
world but himself, and she was at his feet in tears 
and shame, bitter distress. He raised her, and 
put her head on his breast, and tried to still her 
sobbing. 

“Catherine,” he said, with his own voice 
broken, “ you shall never be an outcast from my 
house, so long as you care to accept its shelter.” 

“ But I can not go back to Airlie—I can not go 
back to Airlie ! ” she said almost wildly. “ I will 
not bring disgrace upon you, uncle; and have the 
people talk of me, and blame you for taking me 
back. I am going away—I am not fit to go back 
to Airlie, uncle. You have been very good to me 
—far better than I deserve ; but I can not tell you 
now that I love you for all your kindness to me— 



WILLIAM BLACK. 


209 


for now it is a disgrace for me to speak to any 
one-” 

“Hush, Catherine,” he said. “ It is penitence, 
not despair, that must fill your heart. And the 
penitent has not to look to man for pardon, nor 
yet to fear what may be said of him in wrath. 
They that go elsewhere for forgiveness and com¬ 
fort, have no reason to dread the ill-tongues of 
their neighbors. ‘They looked unto Him, and 
were lightened ; and their faces were not ashamed.’ 
‘This poor man cried, and the Lord heard him, 
and saved him out of all his troubles.’ You will 
go back to Airlie with me, my girl. Perhaps you 
do not feel at home there yet; three years is not 
a long time to get accustomed to a new country. 
I am told ye sometimes cried in thinking about 
France, just as the Jews in captivity did, when 
they said, ‘By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat 
down; yea, we wept when we remembered Zion.’ 
But maybe I have erred in not making the house 
lichtsome enough for ye. I am an old man, 
Catherine ; and the house is dull, perhaps. But 
if ye will tell me how we can make it pleasanter 
to ye-’ ’ 

“Oh, uncle, you are breaking my heart with 
your kindness!” she sobbed; “and I deserve 
none of it—none of it! ” 

It was with great difficulty that the minister 
persuaded her to go back with him to the Manse. 
At length, however, a covered carriage was pro¬ 
cured, and Coquette and her uncle were driven up 
to Airlie. The girl sat now quite silent and impas¬ 
sive, only when she saw any one of the neighbors 
passing along the road she seemed nervously 
anxious to avoid scrutiny. When they got up to 
the gate of the Manse, which was open, she walked 
quietly and sadly by her uncle’s side across the bit 
of garden into the house, and was then for going 
upstairs by herself. Her uncle prevented her. 

“Ye must come and sit wi’ me for a little while, 
until Leezibeth has got some breakfast ready for 
ye.” 


“ I do not want anything to eat,” said Coquette; 
and she seemed afraid of the sound of her own 
voice. 

“ Nevertheless,” said the minister, “ I would 
inquire further into this matter, Catherine. It is 
but proper that I should know what measure of 
guilt falls upon that young man in endeavoring to 
wean away a respectable girl from her home and 
her friends.” 

Coquette drew back with some alarm on her 
face. 

“ Uncle, I can not tell you now. Some other 
time perhaps; but not now. And you must not 
think him guilty, uncle; it is I who am guilty of 
it all. He is much better than any of you think, 
and now he is away in America, and no one will 
defend him if he is accused.” 

At the moment that she spoke. Lord Earlthorpe 
was beyond the reach of accusation and defense. 
The Saltcoats people, toward the close of the after¬ 
noon, discovered the lid of a chest floating about, 
and on it was painted in white letters the word 
Caroline. Later there came a telegram from 
Greenock to the effect that during the preceding 
night the schooner yacht Caroline had been run 
down and sunk in mid-channel by a steamer going 
to Londonderry, and that of all on board the 
yacht, the steamer had been able to pick up only 
the steward. And that same night the news made 
its way up to Airlie, and circulated through the 
village, and at length reached the Manse. Other 
rumors accompanied it. For a moment no one 
dared to tell Coquette of what had happened ; but 
none the less was her flight from the Manse con¬ 
nected with this terrible judgment; and even 
Leezibeth, struck dumb with shame and grief, 
had no word of protest when Andrew finished his 
warnings and denunciations. 

“There is no healing of thy bruise,” said 
Leezibeth to herself sadly, in thinking of Coquette. 
“Thy wound is grievous; all that hear the bruit 
thereof shall clap their hands over thee.” 


14 






GEORGE Macdonald. 


POET, NOVELIST, AND PREACHER. 



MONG the most popular writers of stories is George MacDonald, a 
Scotch independent minister. He is a native of Aberdeenshire, 
and was born at Huntley, in 1824. After completing his education 
at the University of Aberdeen, and preparing for the ministry in 
the Independent College, in London, he entered upon the work 
of a pastor, in which he continued for a number of years. Then, 
however, he resigned his ministry, and, settling in London, began 
his career as a writer. Some years later he made a lecturing tour in the United 
States, and in recent years he and his family have resided principally in Italy. 

His first work was a dramatic poem entitled “Within and Without,” which 
was published in 1856. Two or three other books of poems followed before the 
appearance of his first novel, “David Elginbrod,” in 1862. He has since written 
more than twenty volumes, some of which have been quite widely popular. His 
stories usually deal with some phase of Scotch life, and add to the interest which 
always seems to attach to the character of that hardy people and the scenes of 
their rugged life, the merits of a good literary style and a quite unusual power of 
word-painting. Among the most notable of his novels are: “ Alec Forbes of How- 
glen,” “ The Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood,” “Robert Falconer,” “Malcolm,” 
“The Marquis of Lossie,” “ Donald Grant,” and “What’s Mine’s Mine.” Besides 
these, he has written several tales for the young. 


IN THE BELL-TOWER. 
From “ Robert Falconer.” 


ORERT wandered about till he was so weary 
that his head ached with weariness. At 
length he came upon the open space before 
the cathedral, whence the poplar-spire rose aloft 
into a blue sky flecked with white clouds. It was 
near sunset, and he could not see the sun, but the 


upper half of the spire shone glorious in its radi¬ 
ance. From the top his eye sank to the base. 
In the base was a little door, half open. Might 
not that be the lowly narrow entrance through the 
shadow up to the sun-filled air? He drew near 
I with a kind of tremor, for never before had he 

10 




















GEORGE Macdonald. 


21 I 


gazed upon visible grandeur growing out of the 
human soul, in the majesty of everlastingness—a 
tree of the Lord’s planting. Where had been but 
an empty space of air and light and darkness, had 
risen, and had stood for ages, a mighty wonder, 
awful to the eye, solid to the hand. He peeped 
through the opening of the door; there was the 
foot of a stair—marvelous as the ladder of Jacob’s 
dream—turning away toward the unknown. He 
pushed the door and entered. A man appeared, 
and barred his advance. Robert put his hand in 
his pocket and drew out some silver. The man 
took one piece, looked at it, turned it over, put 
it in his pocket, and led the way up the stair. 
Robert followed, and followed, and followed. 

He came out of stone walls upon an airy plat¬ 
form whence the spire ascended heavenwards. 
His conductor led upward still, and he followed, 
winding within a spiral network of stone, through 
which all the world looked in. Another plat¬ 
form, and yet another spire springing from its 
basement. Still up they went, and at length stood 
on a circle of stone surrounding like a coronet the 
last base of the spire which lifted its apex un¬ 
trodden. Then Robert turned and looked below. 
He grasped the stones before him. The loneli¬ 
ness was awful. 

There was nothing between him and the roofs 
of the houses, four hundred feet below, but the 
spot where he stood. The whole city with its 
red roofs lay under him. He stood uplifted on. 
the genius of the builder,, and the town beneath 
him was a toy. 

He turned and descended, winding through the 
network of stone which was all between him and 
space. The object of the architect must have 
been to melt away the material from before the 
eyes of the spirit. He hung in the air in a cloud 
of stone. As he came in his descent within the 
ornaments of one of the basements, he found him¬ 
self looking through two thicknesses of stone lace 
on the nearing city. Down there was the beast 
of prey and his victim; but for the moment he 
was above the region of sorrow. His weariness 
and his headache had vanished utterly. With his 
mind tossed on its own speechless delight, he was 
slowly descending still, when he saw on his left j 


hand a door ajar. He would look what mystery 
lay within. A push opened it. He discovered 
only a little chamber lined with wood. In the 
center stood something—a bench-like piece of 
furniture, plain and worn. He advanced a step; 
peered over the top of it; saw keys white and 
black ; saw pedals below ; it was an organ ! Two 
strides brought him in front of it. A wooden 
stool, polished and hollowed with centuries of use, 
was before it. But where was the bellows? That 
might be down hundreds of steps below, for he 
was half-way only to the ground. He seated him¬ 
self musingly, and struck, as he thought, a dumb 
chord. Responded up in the air, far overhead, a 
mighty booming clang. Startled, almost fright¬ 
ened, even as if Mary St. John had said she loved 
him, Robert sprang from the stool, and, without 
knowing why, moved only by the chastity of de¬ 
light, flung the door to the post. It banged and 
clicked. Almost mad with the joy of the Titanic 
instrument, he seated himself again at the keys, 
and plunged into a tempest of clanging harmony. 
One hundred bells hang in that temple of wonder 
—an instrument for a city, nay, for a kingdom. 
Often had Robert dreamed that he was the gal¬ 
vanic center of a thunder-cloud of harmony, 
flashing off from every finger the willed lightning 
tone : such was the unexpected scale of this instru¬ 
ment—so far aloft in the sunny air rang the re¬ 
sponsive notes—that his dream appeared almost 
realized. 

He did not know that only on grand, solemn, 
worldwide occasions, such as a king’s birthday, or 
a ball at the Hotel de Ville, was such music on the 
card. When he flung the door to, it had closed 
with a spring lock, and for the last quarter of an 
hour three gendarmes, commanded by the sacristan 
of the tower, had been thundering thereat. He 
waited only to finish the last notes of the wild 
Orcadian chant, and opened the door. He was 
seized by the collar, dragged down the stair into 
! the street, and through a crowd of wondering 
^ faces. Poor unconscious dreamer! it will not do 
i to think on the housetop even, and you had been 
; dreaming very loud indeed in the church spire; 

I away to the bureau of the police. 





(TnrnTniTrrfrfffTnTi 


/ s#Vsli ^XX X X sl%sXsX.X4 X XX#v 


ROBERT LOUIS STE\^ENSON. 

WELL-15ELOVEI) NOVELIST AND POET. 

HERE was a quality in the character of Robert Louis Stevenson which 
created for him a circle of personal friends whose number and 
devotion can hardly be equaled. His quick sympathy, which was 
shown in his love for children and his comprehension of them, and 
in the power which, in the closing years of his life, he acquired over 
the untutored natives of the Samoan Islands; his acute intelli¬ 
gence ; and his noble character, made him, perhaps, the best-loved 
among contemporary men of letters. Coming of a race of hard-headed, practical 
men (his father and grandfather were engineers and famous builders of lighthouses), 
he determined from the first to turn his back on the more practical professions and 
devote himself to literature. Deferring to the wish of his father, he studied law, 
and was actually called to the Bar, but he never engaged in the practice of the 
profession. In 1873, at the age of twenty-three, his health broke down, and he 
was no longer able to endure for any length of time the rigorous climate of his 
native Edinburgh, but passed the remaining years of his life in an almost constant 
and courageous battle with pulmonary trouble. He lived in the south of France, 
in Southern California, at Bournemouth in England, in the Adirondacks, and finally 
sailed away with his American wife and her family to the South Seas, where, in the 
Samoan Islands, he established himself, and, until his death in 1894, lived in con¬ 
tinuous literary activity, and free from the frequent relapses and acute suffering 
which he experienced elsewhere. The story of his life in this remote corner of 
the world,—how he won the confidence of the natives, the part he took in their 
affairs, and the succession of exquisite stories, essays, and poems which came to 
tell the rest of the world that his productiveness had not ceased—all this forms 
one of the most delightful stories which our literary history affords. 

His published works include some thirty titles—poems, volumes of essays, 
stories for children, and novels. The most famous of his works is the “ Strange 
Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” which was one of the most talked of books of 
its time, and still retains its position as a triumph of invention and artistic work. 
The vivid portrayal of the two characters assumed at will by the one man,—the high- 
minded, noble Dr. Jekyll, and the base, degraded, vicious Mr. Hyde, the despair 
of the miserable man as he discovers that it is more and more difficult, and finally 
impossible for him to throw off his lower character, and that he must face and suffer 

2 1 2 















ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. 


213 


the consequences of being Mr. Hyde, is a most admirable example of Stevenson’s 
keen insight, imaginative power, and command of language. His own opinion was 
that “ Kidnapped” was his best work ; but the “Master of Ballantrac,” particularly 
its first part, is unsurpassed in its kind. The best known of his other works are: 
“Treasure Island,” “The Black Arrow,” “Prince Otto,” “Merry Men,” two 
volumes of essays, “Virginibus Puerisque,” and “Familiar Studies of Men and 
Books,” and a book of poems, “Underwoods.” 

He is buried on the summit of Mount Vaca, a precipitous peak near his 
Samoan home, where his monument will be visible for great distances at sea, like 
the lighthouses of his fathers. After his death, the chiefs and people of the Samoans 
came in large numbers to kiss his hand and to bring their customary funeral offer¬ 
ing of mats for the burial of their friend, “the Story Teller,” and in this character 
Stevenson’s fame will be secure. 






THE TWO PHILOSOPHERS. 
From “ Merry Men.” 


[N ONE of the posts before Tentaillon’s car¬ 
riage entry he espied a little dark figure 
perched in a meditative attitude, and im¬ 
mediately recognized Jean-Marie. 

“Aha,” he said, stopping before him humor¬ 
ously, with a hand on either knee. “ So we rise 
early in the morning, do we? It appears to me 
that we have all the vices of a philosopher.” 

The boy got to his feet and made a grave salu¬ 
tation. 

“ And how is our patient? ” asked Deprez. 

It appeared the patient was about the same. 

“And why do you rise early in the morning ? ” 
he pursued. 

Jean-Marie, after a long silence, professed that 
he hardly knew. 

“ You hardly know ? ” repeated Deprez. “ We 
hardly know anything, my man, until we try to 
learn. Interrogate your consciousness. Come, 
])ush me this inquiry home. Do you like it ? ” 

“ Yes,” said the boy, slowly; “ 3'es, I like it.” 

“And why do you like it?” continued the 
doctor. (We are now pursuing the Socratic 
method.) “Why do you like it?” 

“It is quiet,” answered Jean-Marie; “and I 
have nothing to do; and then I feel as if I were 
good.” 


Doctor Deprez took a seat on the post at the 
opposite side. He was beginning to take an 
interest in the talk, for the boy plainly thought 
before he spoke, and tried to answer truly. 

“ It appears you have a taste for feeling good,” 
.said the Doctor. “ Now, then, you puzzle me 
extremely; for I thought you said you were a 
thief; and the two are imcompatible.” 

“ Is it very bad to steal ? ” asked Jean-Marie. 

“Such is the general opinion, little boy,” re¬ 
plied the Doctor. 

“No: but I mean as I stole,” exclaimed the 
other. “ For I had no choice. I think it is 
surely right to have bread ; it must be right to 
have bread, there comes so plain a want of it. 
And then they beat me cruelly if I returned with 
nothing,” he added. “I was not ignorant of 
right and wrong; for before that I had been well 
taught by a priest, who was very kind to me.” 
(The Doctor made a horrible grimace at the word 
“ priest.”) “ But it seemed to me, when one had 
nothing to eat and was beaten, it was a different 
affair, I would not have stolen for tartlets, I be¬ 
lieve ; but anyone would steal for bread.” 

“And so, I suppose,” said the Doctor, with a 
rising sneer, “you prayed God to forgive you, 
and explained the case to Him at length.” 






214 


ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. 


“Why, sir?’’ asked Jean-Marie. “ I do not 
see.’ ’ 

“Your priest would see, however,” retorted 
Deprez. 

“Would he?” asked the boy, troubled for the 
first time. “I should have thought God would 
have known.” 

“ Eh ! ” snarled the Doctor. 

“ I should have thought God would have under¬ 
stood me,” replied the other. “ You do not see ; 
but then it was God that made me think so, was 
it not? ” 

“ Little boy, little boy,” said Deprez, “ I told 
you already you had the vices of philosophy; if you 
display the virtues also, I must go. I am a stu¬ 
dent of the blessed laws of health, an observer of 
plain and temperate nature in her common walks ; 
and I can not preserve my equanimity in the pres¬ 
ence of a monster. Do you understand ? ” 

“ No, sir,” said the boy. 

“ I will make my meaning clear to you,” re¬ 
plied the Doctor. “Look there at the sky— 
behind the belfry first, where it is so light, and 
then up and up, turning your chin back, right to 
the top of the dome, where it is already as blue as 
at noon. Is not that a beautiful color? Does it 
not please the heart? We have seen it all our 
lives, until it has grown in with our familiar 
thoughts. Now,” changing his tone, “suppose 
that sky to become suddenly of a live and fiery 
amber, like the color of clear coals, and growing 
scarlet toward the top—I do not say it would be 
any the less beautiful; but would you like it as 
well?” 

“ I suppose not,” answered Jean-Marie. 

“Neither do I like you,” returned the Doctor, 
roughly. “ I hate all odd people, and you are the 
most curious little boy in all the world.” 

Jean-Marie seemed to ponder for a while, and 
then he raised his head again and looked over at 
the Doctor with an air of candid inquiry. “ But 
are you not a very curious gentleman?” he 
asked. 

The Doctor threw away his stick, bounded on 
the boy, clasped him to his bosom, and kissed 
him on both cheeks. “Admirable, admirable 
imp!” he cried. 


“ What a m.orning, what an hour for a theorist 
of forty-two! No,” he continued, apostrophizing 
heaven, “ I did not know that such boys existed ; 
I was ignorant they made them so; I had doubted 
of my race; and now! It is like,” he added, 
picking tq3 his stick, “ like a lover’s meeting. I 
have bruised my favorite staff in that moment of 
enthusiasm. The injury, however, is not grave.” 
He caught the boy looking at him in obvious 
wonder, embarrassment, and alarm. “ Hello ! 
said he, “Why do you look at me like that? 
Egad, I believe the boy despises me. Do you 
despise me, boy ? ” 

“ O, no,” replied Jean-Marie, seriously; “ only 
I do not understand.” 

“You must excuse me, sir,” returned the 
Doctor, with gravity; “I am still so young. O, 
hang him ! ” he added to himself. And he took 
his seat again, and observed the boy sardonically. 
“ He has spoiled the quiet of my morning,” 
thought he. “I shall be nervous all day, and 
have a febricule when I digest. Let me compose 
myself.” And so he dismissed his preoccupations 
by an effort of the will which he had long prac¬ 
tised, and let his soul roam abroad in the contem¬ 
plation of the morning. He inhaled the air, 
tasting it critically as a connoisseur tastes a vint¬ 
age, and prolonging the expiration with hygienic 
gusto. He counted the little flecks of cloud along 
the sky. He followed the movements of the birds 
around the church tower—making long sweeps, 
hanging poised, or turning airy somersaults in 
fancy, and beating the wind with imaginary 
pinions. And in this way he regained peace of 
mind and animal composure, conscious of his 
limbs, conscious of the sight of his eyes, conscious 
that the air had a cool taste, like a fruit, at the top 
of his throat; and at last, in complete abstraction, 
he began to sing. The Doctor had but one air— 
“ Malbrouck s’en va-t-en guerre ” : even with that 
he was on terms of mere politeness; and his 
musical exploits were always reserved for moments 
when he was alone and entirely happy. 

He was recalled to earth rudely by a pained 
expression on the boy’s face: “What do you 
think of my singing?” he inquired, stopping in 
the middle of a note ; and then, after he had 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. 


215 


waited some little while, and received no answer, 
“What do you think of my singing?” he 
repeated, imperiously. 

“ I do not like it,” faltered Jean-Marie. 

“ Oh, come ! ” cried the Doctor. “Possibly 
you are a performer yourself? ” 

“ I sing better than that,” replied the boy. 

The Doctor eyed him for some seconds in stupe¬ 
faction. He was aware that he was angry, and 
blushed for himself in consequence, which made 
him angrier. 

“ If this is how you address your master ! ” he 
said at last, with a shrug and a flourish of his arms. 

“I do not speak to him at all,” returned the 
boy. “ I do not like him.” 

“ Then you like me ? ” snapped Doctor Deprez, 
with unusual eagerness. 

“I do not know,” answered Jean-Marie. 

The Doctor rose. “I shall wish you a good 
morning,” he said. “You are too much for me. 
Perhaps you have blood in your veins, perhaps 
celestial ichor, or perhaps you circulate nothing 
more gross than respirable air; but of one thing I 
am inexpugnably assured—that you are no human 


being. No, boy”—shaking his stick at him— 
“ you are not a human being. Write, write it in 
your memory—‘ I am not a human being—I have 
no pretension to a human being—I am a dive, a 
dream, an angel, an acrostic, an illusion—what 
you please, but not a human being.’ And so 
accept my humble salutations and farewell! ” 

And with that the Doctor made off along the 
street in some emotion, and the boy stood, men¬ 
tally gaping, where he left him. 

“Never!” cried Madame. “Never, Doctor, 
with my consent. If the child were my own flesh 
and blood, I would not say no. But to take 
another person’s indiscretion on my shoulders— 
my dear friend, I have too much sense.” 

“Precisely,” replied the Doctor. “We both 
had. And I am all the better pleased with our 

wisdom, because—because-” He looked at 

her sharply. 

“Because what ? ” she asked, with a faint pre¬ 
monition of danger. 

“ Because I have found the right person,” said 
the Doctor, firmly, “ and shall adopt him this 
afternoon.” 


TRUTH OF INTERCOURSE. 

From “Virginibus Puerisque.” 


MONO sayings that have a currency in spite 
of being wholly false upon the face of 
them, for the sake of a half-truth upon 
another subject which is accidentally combined 
with the error, one of the grossest and broadest 
conveys the monstrous proposition that it is easy 
to tell the truth and hard to tell a lie. I wish 
heartily it were. But the truth is one ; it has first 
to be discovered, then justly and exactly uttered. 
Even with instruments specially contrived for such 
a purpose—with a foot rule, a lever, or a theodo¬ 
lite—it is not easy to be exact; it is easier, alas ! 
to be inexact. From those who mark the divi¬ 
sions on a scale to those who measure the bound¬ 
aries of empires or the distance of the heavenly 
stars, it is by careful method and minute, un¬ 
wearying attention that men rise even to material 
or to sure knowledge, even of external and con¬ 


stant things. But it is easier to draw the outline 
of a mountain than the changing appearance of a 
face ; and truth in human relations is of this more 
intangible and dubious order: hard to seize, 
harder to communicate. 

“It takes,” says Thoreau, in the noblest and 
most useful passage I remember to have read in 
any modern author, “two to speak truth—one to 
speak and another to hear.” He must be very 
little experienced, or have no great zeal for truth, 
who does not recognize the fact. A grain of 
anger or a grain of suspicion produces strange 
acoustic effects, and makes the ear greedy to 
remark offense. Hence we find those who have 
once quarreled carry themselves distantly, and are 
ever ready to break the truce. To speak truth 
there must be moral equality or else no respect; 
and hence between parent and child intercourse is 










2I6 


ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. 


apt to degenerate into a verbal fencing bout, and 
misapprehensions to become ingrained. And 
there is another side to this, for the parent begins 
with an imperfect notion of the child’s character, 
formed in early years or during the equinoctial 
gales of youth ; to this he adheres, noting only 
the facts which suit his preconception ; and 
wherever a person fancies himself unjustly judged, 
he at once and finally gives up the effort to speak 
truth. With our chosen friends, on the other 
hand, and still more between lovers (for mutual 
understanding is love’s essence), the truth is easily 
indicated by the one and aptly comprehended by 
the other. A hint taken, a look understood, 
conveys the gist of long and delicate explanations ; 
and where the life is known evenj'ea and //ay be¬ 
come luminous. In the closest of all relations— 
that of a love well founded and equally shared— 
speech is half discarded, like a roundabout, infan¬ 
tile process or a ceremony of formal etiquette; 
and the two communicate directly by their pres¬ 


ences, and with few looks and fewer words con¬ 
trive to share their good and evil and uphold each 
other’s hearts in joy. For love rests upon a phys¬ 
ical basis: it is a familiarity of nature’s making 
and apart from voluntary choice. Understanding 
has in some sort outrun knowledge, for the affec¬ 
tion perhaps began with the acquaintance ; and 
as it was not made like other relations, so it is not, 
like them, to be perturbed or clouded. Each knows 
more than can be uttered ; each lives by faith, and 
believes by a natural compulsion ; and between man 
and wife the language of the body is largely devel¬ 
oped and grown strangely eloquent. The thought 
that prompted and was conveyed in a caress would 
only lose to be set down in words, ay, although 
Shakespeare himself should be the scribe. 

Yet it is in these dear intimacies, beyond all 
others, that we must strive and do battle for the 
truth. Let but a doubt arise, and alas ! all the pre¬ 
vious intimacy and confidence is but another 
charge against the person doubted. 


-. 0 ^ 0 - 


THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL. 

From “ Underwoods.” 


N.AKED house, a naked moor, 

A shivering pool before the door, 

A garden bare of flowers and fruit 
And poplars at the garden foot: 

Such is the place that I live in. 

Bleak without and bare within. 

Yet shall your ragged moor receive 
The incomparable pomp of eve, 

And the cold glories of the dawn 
Behind your shivering trees be drawn ; 

And when the wind from place to place 
Doth the unmoored cloud-galleons chase. 

Your garden gloom and gleam again. 

With leaping sun, with glancing rain. 

Here shall the wizard moon ascend 
The heavens, in the crimson end 
Of day’s declining splendor; here 

-. 0^0 — 


The army of the stars appear. 

The neighboring hollows, dry or wet. 
Spring shall with tender flowers beset; 
And oft the morning muser see 
I.arks rising from the broomy lea. 

And every fairy wheel and thread 
Of cobweb dew-bediamonded. 

When daisies go, shall winter time 
Silver the simple grass with rime ; 
Autumnal frosts enchant the pool 
And make the cart-ruts beautiful; 

And when snow-bright the moor expands. 
How shall your children clap their hands ! 

To make this earth, our hermitage, 

A cheerful and a changeful page, 

Ood’s bright and intricate device 
Of days and seasons doth suffice. 



REQUIEM. 
From “ Underwoods.” 


D NDER the wide and starry sky. 

Dig the grave and let me lie. 

Glad did I live and gladly die 
And I laid me down with a will. 


This be the verse you grave for me: 
//irre he lies where he longed to be ; 
Home is the sailor, home from the sea, 
And the hunter home from the hill. 








SIR WALTER BESANT. 


NOVELIST AND REFORMER. 


■ 


ROBABLY no writer of novels except Charles Dickens has done so 
much by his books to better the conditions of human life as has Sir 
Walter Besant. Surely the man who in “ All Sorts and Condi¬ 
tions of Men” so painted the picture of the misery of the east of 
London that society responded by founding the wonderful enter¬ 
prise known as the “ People’s Palace”—surely he can claim a posi¬ 
tion second to none in all the world of letters. 

He was born in Portsmouth, England, in 1838, and after taking mathematical 
honors at Cambridge, taught for seven years in the Royal College of Mauritius ; 
but being compelled to return to England for his health, he took up literature as 
a profession. In 1869 he became a contributor to Once a Week, then edited by 
Mr. James Rice, with whom Besant formed a literary partnership. They wrote 
a number of brilliant books, including “ Ready-Money Mortiboy,” “ My Little 
Girl,” “The Seamy Side,” and “The Chaplain of the Fleet.” After the death of 
Mr. Rice, Besant published “All Sorts and Conditions of Men.” “The Children 
of Gibeon,” and “The World Went Very Well Then.” had the same philanthropic 
purpose. In 1895 made a baronet. In all, he has written some thirty 

novels, displaying a knowledge of men and of the world hardly equaled among 
contemporary writers. Some of his best-known books are: “Let Nothing You 
Dismay,” “All in a Garden Fair,” “Dorothy PYrster,” “In Luck at Last,” and 
“ Armorel of Lyonesse.” His skill as a teller of stories shows no sign of decrease, 
and few men of our time have ministered so acceptably or in so many and various 
ways, not only to the entertainment and delight, but to the elevation of their 
fellows. 




PRESENTED BY THE SEA. 
From “Armorel of Lyonesse.” 


ETER ! ” cried Armorel in the farm-yard, 
“ Peter ! Peter ! Wake up ! Where is the 
boy? Wake up and come quick ! ’’ 


The boy was not sleeping, however, and came 
forth slowly, but obediently, in rustic fashion. He 
was a little older than most of those who still i)er- 


217 
























2I8 


SIR WALTER BESANT. 


mit themselves to be called boys; unless his looks 
deceived one, he was a great deal older, for he 
was entirely bald, save for a few long scattered 
hairs, which were white. His beard and whiskers 
also consisted of nothing but a few sparse white 
hairs. He moved heavily, without the spring of 
boyhood in his feet. Had Peter jumped or run, 
one might in haste have inferred a condition of 
drink or mental disorder. As for his shoulders, 
too, they were rounded, as if by the weight of 
years, a thing which is rarely seen in boys. Yet 
Armorel called this antique person the boy, and 
he answered to the name without remonstrance. 

“ Quick, Peter ! ” she cried. “There’s a boat 
drifting on White Island Ledge, and the tide’s 
running out strong, and there are two men in her, 
and they’ve got no oars in the boat. Ignorant 
trippers, I suppose. They will both be killed to 
a certainty, unless— Quick ! ” 

Peter followed her flying footsteps with a show 
of haste and a movement of the legs approaching 
alacrity. But then he was always a slow boy, and 
one who loved to have his work done for him. 
Therefore, when he reached the landing-place, he 
found that Armorel was well before him, and that 
she had already shipped mast and sail and oars, 
and was waiting for him to shove off. 

Peter was slow on land ; at sea, however, he 
is slow who does not know what can be got out of 
a boat, and how it can be got. Peter did possess 
this knowledge; all the islanders, in fact, have it. 
They are born with it. They also know that 
nothing at sea is gained by hurry. It is a maxim 
which is said to rule or govern their conduct on 
land as well as afloat. Peter, therefore, when he 
had pushed off, sat down and took an oar with no 
more appearance of hurry than if he were taking 
a boat-load of boxes filled with flowers across to 
the Port. Armorel took the other oar. 

“They are drifting on White Island Ledge,” 
repeated Armorel, “and the tide is running out 
fast.” 

Peter made no reply—Armorel expected none— 
but dipped his oar. They rowed in silence for 
ten minutes. Then Peter found utterance and 
spoke slowly : 

“Twenty years ago—I remember it well—a 


boat went ashore on that very ledge. The tide 
w'as running out, strong, like to-night. There 
were three men in her. Visitors they were, who 
wanted to save the boatman’s pay. Their bodies 
were never found.” 

Then both pulled on in silence and doggedly. 

In ten minutes "or more they had rounded the 
point at a respectful distance, for reasons well 
known to the navigator and the nautical surveyor 
of Scilly. Peter, without a word, shipped his oar. 
Armorel did likewise. Then Peter stepped the 
mast and hoisted the sail, keeping the line in his 
own hand, and looked ahead, while Armorel took 
the helm. 

“ It’s Jinkins’s boat,” said Peter, because they 
were now in sight of her. “What’ll Jinkins say 
when he hears that his boat’s gone to pieces?” 

“And the two men? Who are they? Will 
Jinkins say nothing about the men ? ” 

“Strangers they are; gentlemen, I suppose. 
Well—if the breeze doesn’t soon—Ah! here it 
is! ” 

The wind suddenly filled the sail. The boat 
heeled over under the breeze, and a moment after 
was flying through the water straight up the broad 
channel between the two Minaltos and Samson. 

The sun was very low now; between them and 
the west lay the boat they were pursuing, a small 
black object with two black silhouettes of figures 
clear against the crimson sky. And now Armorel 
perceived that they had by this time gotten an 
inkling, at least, of their danger, for they no 
longer sat passive, but had torn up a plank from 
the bottom with which one, kneeling in the bow, 
\vas working, as with a paddle, but without 
science; the boat yawed this way and that, but 
still kept on her course, drifting to the rocks. 

“If she touches the ledge, Peter,” said 
Armorel, “she will be in little bits in five min¬ 
utes. The water is rushing over it like a mill- 
stream.” 

This she said ignorant of mill-streams, because 
there are none on Scilly; but the comparison 
served. 

“ If she touches,” Peter replied, “ we may just 
go home again. For we shall be no good to no¬ 
body.” 



SIR WALTER BESANT. 


219 


Beyond the boat they could plainly see the 
waters breaking over the ledge ; the sun lighted 
up the white foam that leaped and flew over the 
black rocks just showing their teeth above the 
water as the tide went down. 

Here is a problem—you may find plenty like it 
in every book of algebra: Given a boat drifting 
upon a ledge of rocks with the current and the 
tide; given a boat sailing in pursuit with a fair 
wind aft ; given, also, the velocity of the current 
and the speed of the boat and the distance of the 
first boat from the rocks; at what distance must 
the second boat commence the race in order to 
catch up the first boat before it drives upon the 
rocks ? 

This second boat, paying close attention to the 
problem, came up hand over hand, rapidly over¬ 
taking the first boat, where the two men not only 
understood at last the danger they were in, but 
also that an attempt was being made to save them. 
In fact, one of them, who had some tincture or 
flavor of the mathematics left in him from his 
school-days, remembered the problems of this 
class, and would have given a great deal to have 
been back again in school working out one of 
them. 

Presently the boats were so near that Peter 
hailed, “ Boat ahoy ! Back her ! Back her, or 
you’ll be upon the rocks! Back her all you 
know ! ” 

“ We’ve broken our oars,” they shouted. 

“ Keep her off! ” Peter bawled again. 

Even with a plank taken from the bottom of the 
boat a practised boatman would have been able to 
keep her off long enough to clear the rocks ; but 
these two young men were not used to the ways 
of the sea. 

“ Put up your helium,” said Peter, quietly. 

“What are you going to do?” The girl 
obeyed first, as one must do at sea, and asked the 
question afterward. 

“There’s only one chance. We must cut 
across her bows. Two lubbers ! They ought not 
to be trusted with a boat. There’s room.” He 
looked at the ledge ahead and at his own sail. 
‘‘Now—steady.” He tightened the rope, the 
boat changed her course. Then Peter stood up 


! and called again, his hand to his mouth, “Back 
her! Back her! Back her all you know!” He 
sat down and said quietly, “ Now, then—luff it is 
—luff—all you can.” 

The boat turned suddenly. It was high time. 
Right in front of them—only a few yards in front 
—the water rushed as if over a cascade, boiling 
and surging among the rocks. At high tide there 
would have been the calm, unruffled surface of the 
ocean swell; now, there were roaring floods and 
swelling whirlpools. The girl looked round, but 
only for an instant. Then the boat crossed the 
bows of the other, and Armorel, as they passed, 
caught the rope that was held out to her. 

One moment more and they were off the rocks, 
in the deep water, towing the other boat after 
them. 

Then Peter arose, lowered the sail, and took 
down his mast. 

“Nothing,” he said, “between us and Min- 
carlo. Now, gentlemen, if you will step into this 
boat we can tow yours along with us. So—take 
care, sir. Sit in the stern beside the young lady. 
Can you row, either of you?” 

At nine o’clock the little bar parlor of Tregar- 
then’s was nearly full. It is a very little room, 
low as well as little, therefore it is easily filled. 
And though it is the principa. club-room of Hugh 
Town, where the better sort and the notables meet, 
it can easily accommodate them all. 

Presently, one after the other, the company got 
up and went out. There is no sitting late at night 
in Scilly. There was left of all only the perma¬ 
nent official. 

“I hear, gentlemen,” he said, “that you have 
had rather a nasty time this evening.” 

“ We should have been lost,” said the artist, 
“ but for a young lady, who saw our danger and 
came to us.” 

“ Armorel. I saw her towing in your boat and 
landing you. Yes, it was a mighty lucky job that 
she saw you in time. There’s a girl! Not yet 
sixteen years old ! Yet I’d rather trust myself 
with her in a boat, especially if she had the boy 
Peter with her, than with any boatman of the 
islands. And there’s not a rock or an islet, not a 
bay or a headland in this country of bays and 



220 


SIR WALTER BESANT. 


capes and rocks, that she does not know. She ' 
could find her way blindfold by the feel of the 
wind and the force of the current. But it’s in her 
blood. Father to son—father to son and daughter 
too—the Roseveans are born boatmen.” 

“She saved our lives,” repeated the artist. 
“That is all we know of her. It is a good deal 
to know, perhaps, from our own point of view.” 

“ She belongs to Samson, d'hey’ve always lived 
on Samson. Once there were Roseveans, Tryeths, 
Jenkinses, and Woodcocks on Samson. Now 
they are nearly all gone—only one family of Rose- 
vean left, and one of Tryeth.” 

“ She said that nobody else lived there.” 

“Well, it is only her own family. They’ve 
started a flower-farm lately on Holy Hill, and I 
hear it’s doing pretty well. It’s a likely situation, 
too, facing the southwest and well sheltered. You 
should go and see the flower-farm. Armorel will 
be glad to show you the farm, and the island too. 
Samson has got a good many curious things— 
more curious, perhaps, than she knows, poor 
child ! ” 

He paused for a moment, and then continued : 
“There’s nobody on the island now but them¬ 
selves. There’s the old woman, first—you should 
see her, too. She’s a curiosity by herself—Ursula 
Rosevean—she was a Traverse, and came from 
Bryher to be married. She married Methusalem 
Rosevean, Armorel’s great-great-grandfather— 
that was nigh upon eighty years ago; she’s close 
upon a hundred now ; and she’s been a widow 
since—when was it? I believe she’d only been a 
wife for twelve months or so. He was drowned 
on a smuggling run—his brother Emanuel, too. 
Widow used to look for him from the hill-top 
every night for a year and more afterward. A 
wonderful old woman. Go and look at her. Per¬ 
haps she will talk to you. Sometimes, when Ar¬ 
morel plays the fiddle, she will brighten up and 
talk for an hour. She knows how to cure all dis¬ 
eases, and she can foretell the future. But she’s 
too old now, and mostly she’s asleep. Then 
there’s Justinian Tryeth, and Dorcas, his wife— 
they’re over seventy, both of them, if they’re a 
day. Dorcas was a St. Agnes girl—that’s the 
reason why her name was Hicks; if she’d come 
from Bryher she’d have been a Traverse ; if from 


' Tresco she’d have been a Jenkins. But she was a 
Hicks. She’s as old as her husband, I should say. 
As for the boy, Peter-” 

“ She called him the boy, I remember. But he 
seemed to me-” 

“ He’s fifty, but he’s always been the boy. He 
never married, because there was nobody left on 
Samson for him to marry, and he’s always been 
too busy on the farm to come over here after a 
wife. And he looks more than fifty, because once 
he fell off the pier, head first, into the stern of a 
boat, and after he’d been unconscious for three 
days all his hair fell off except a few stragglers, 
and they’d turned white. Looks most as old as 
his father. Chessun’s nearly fifty-two.” 

“ Who is Chessun ? ” 

“ She’s the girl.' She’s always been the girl. 
She’s never married, just like Peter, her brother, 
because there was no one left on Samson for her. 
And she never leaves the island except once or 
twice a year, when she goes to the afternoon ser¬ 
vice at Bryher. Well, gentlemen, that’s all the 
people left on Samson. 

“It is ten o’clock—I must go. Did you ever 
hear the story, gentlemen, of the Scillonian 
sailor?” He sat down again. “I believe it 
must have been one of the Roseveans. He was on 
board a West Indiaman, homeward bound, and 
the skipper got into a fog and lost his reckoning. 
Then he asked this man if he knew the Scilly 
Isles. ‘Better nor any book,’ says the sailor. 
‘Then,’ says the skipper, ‘ take the wheel.’ In 
an hour crash went the ship upon the rocks. 
‘ Damn your eyes!’ says the skipper, ‘you said 
you knew the Scilly Isles.’ ‘So I do,’ says the 
man. ‘This is one of ’em.’ The ship went to 
pieces, and near all the hands were lost. But the 
people of the islands had a fine time with the 
flotsam and the jetsam for a good many days after¬ 
ward.” 

In the night a vision came to Roland Lee. He 
saw Armorel once more sailing to his rescue. And 
in his vision he was seized with a mighty terror 
and a shaking of the limbs, and his heart sunk 
and his cheek blanched. And he cried aloud, as 
he sunk beneath the cold waters: “Oh, Armorel, 
you have come too late 1 Armorel, you can not 
save me now 1 ’ ’ 







JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE. 

POPULAR WRITER OF SCOTCH DIAI.ECT SKETCHES. 

ERE seems to be something in the Scotch speech and' character 
which appeals to the deepest and tenderest sentiments of the heart. 
It is for this reason that the dialect sketches and stories of Barrie 
and others have found their way into such universal popularity, 
and that the homely people who appear in “ A Window in Thrums,” 
“The Little Minister,” and “Sentimental Tommy,” are as familiar 
to us as the characters of Dickens or Thackeray. 

James M. Barrie was the son of a Scotch physician, whose portrait he has 
lovingly drawn as “Dr. McQueen,” and was born at Kirriemuir, in i860. He 
was educated at the University of Edinburgh, and devoted himself at first to 
journalism. Having published the series of sketches, “ Auld Licht Idylls,” in 
SV. James's Gazette" removed to London in 1885, and has since resided in that 
city. He has published a number of stories, but none of them have been so popular 
as those in the Scotch dialect already mentioned. In this Barrie may well be 
termed a*literary artist of the first rank. 

He has written several plays, one of which, “The Professor’s Love Story,” has 
been very successful, and has added to his reputation, and while the judgment of 
contemporaries is not often conclusive, it may be safely assumed that much of Mr. 
Barrie’s work will find a permanent place in literature. 




» i <— 


PREPARING TO RECEIVE COMPANY. 
From “ Window in Thrums.” 


EEBY was at the fire brandering a quarter 
of steak on the tongs, when the house was 
flung into consternation by Hendry’s 
casual remark that he had seen Tibbie Mealmaker 
in the town with her man. 

“The Lord preserve’s ! ” cried Leeby. 

Je.ss looked quickly at the clock. 


“ Half fower ! ” she said, excitedly. 

“Then if canna be dune,” said Leeby, falling 
despairingly into a chair, “ for they may be here 
ony meenute.” 

“It’s most michty,” said Jess, turning on her 
husband, “ ’at yeshould tak a pleasure in bringin’ 
this hoose to disgrace. Hoo did ye no tell’ssuner?” 
I 





















222 


JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE. 


“I fair forgot,” Hendry answered; “but 
what’s a’ yer steer ? ” 

Jess looked at me (she often did this) in a way 
that meant, “ What a man is this-I’m tied to ! ” 

“Steer!” she exclaimed. “Is’t no time we 
was makkin’ a steer? They’ll be in for their tea 
ony meenute, an’ the room no sae muckle as 
sweepit. Ay, an’ me lookin’ like a sweep; an’ 
Tibbie Mealmaker, ’at’s sae partikler genteel, 
seein’ you sic a sicht as ye are ! ” 

Jess shook Hendry out of his chair, while Leeby 
began to sweep with the one hand, and agitatedly 
to unbutton her wrapper with the other, 

“She didna see me,” said Hendry, sitting 
down forlornly on the table. 

“ Get afif that table ! ” cried Jess. “ See hand 
o’ the besom,” she said to Leeby, 

“For mercy’s sake, mother,” said Leeby, “gie 
yer face a dicht, an’ put on a clean mutch.” 

“I’ll open the door if they come afore you’re 
ready,” said Hendry, as Leeby pushed him 
against the dresser. 

“ Ye daur to speak aboot openin’ the door, an’ 
you sic a mess 1 ” cried Jess, with pins in her 
mouth. 

“ Havers ! ” retorted Hendry. “ A man canna 
be aye washin’ at ’imsel’.” 

Seeing that Hendry was as much in the way as 
myself, I invited him upstairs to the attic, whence 
we heard Jess and Leeby upbraiding each other 
shrilly. I was aware that the room was speckless; 
but for all that Leeby was turning it upside 
down. 

“ She’s aye taen like that,” Hendry said to me, 
referring to his wife, “when she’s expectin’ com¬ 
pany. Ay, it’s a peety she canna tak things can¬ 
nier.” 

“Tibbie Mealmaker must be some one of im¬ 
portance ? ” I asked. 

“Ou, she’s naething by the ord’nar’ ; but ye 
see she was mairit to a Tilliedrum man no lang 
syne, an’ they’re said to hae a michty grand es¬ 
tablishment. Ay, they’ve a wardrobe spleet new; 
an’ what think ye Tibbie wears ilka day? ” 

I shook my head. 

“It was Chirsty Miller ’at put it through the 
toon,” Hendry continued. “Christy was in 


Tilliedrum last Teisday or Wednesday, an’ Tibbie 
gae her a cup o’ tea. Ay, weel, Tibbie telt 
Chirsty ’at she wears hose ilka day.” 

“ Wears hose? ” 

“ Ay. It’s some michty grand kind o’ stockin’. 
I never heard o’t in this toon. Na, there’s nae- 
body in Thrums ’at wears hose.” 

“And who did Tibbie get?” I asked; for in 
Thrums they say, “ Wha did she get?” and 
“ Wha did he tak?” 

“ His name’s Davit Curly. Ou, a crittur fu’ o’ 
maggots, an’ nae great match, for he’s juist the 
Tilliedrum bill-sticker.” 

At this moment Jess shouted from her chair 
(she was burnishing the society tea pot as she 
spoke), “ Mind, Hendry McQumpha, ’at upon 
nae condition are ye to mention the bill-stickin’ 
afore Tibbie ! ” 

“Tibbie,” Hendry explained tome, “is a terri¬ 
ble vain tid, an’ doesna think the bill-stickin’ 
genteel. Ay, they say ’at if she meets Davit in 
the street wi’ his paste-pot an’ the brush in his 
hands, she pretends no to ken ’im.” 

Every time Jess paused to think, she cried up 
orders, such as: 

“ Dinna call her Tibbie, mind ye. Always 
address her as Mistress Curly.” 

“ Shak’ hands wi’ baith o’ them, an’ say ye 
hope they’re in the enjoyment o’ guid health.” 

“ Dinna put yer feet on the table.” 

“ Mind, you’re no’ to mention ’at ye kent they 
were in the toon.” 

“ When onybody passes ye yer tea say, ‘ Thank 
ye.’ ” 

“ Dinna stir yer tea as if ye was churnin’ butter, 
nor let on ’at the scones is no our ain bakin’.” 

“ If Tibbie says onything aboot the china, yer 
no’ to say ’at we dinna use it ilka day.” 

“ Dinna lean in the big chair, for it’s broken, 
an’ Leeby’s gi’en it a lick o’ glue this meenute.” 

“When Leeby gies ye a kick aneath the table 
that’ll be a sign to ye to say grace.” 

Hendry looked at me apologetically while these 
instructions came up. 

“ I winna dive my head wi’ sic nonsense,” he 
said ; “it’s no’ for a man body to be sae crammed 
fu’ o’ manners.” 




JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE. 


223 


“Come awa doon,” Jess shouted to him, “an’ 
put on a clean dickey,” 

“I’ll better do’t to please her,” said Hendry, 
“ though for my ain part I dinna like the feel o’ 
a dickey on week-days. Na, they mak’s think it’s 
the Sabbath.” 

Ten minutes afterward I went downstairs to 
see how the preparations were progressing. Fresh 
muslin curtains had been put up in the room. 
The grand footstool, worked by Leeby, was so 
placed that Tibbie could not help seeing it; and 
a fine cambric hankerchief, of which Jess was 
very proud, was hanging out of a drawer as if by 
accident. An antimacassar lying carelessly on 
the seat of a chair concealed a rent in the horse¬ 
hair, and the china ornaments on the mantelpiece 
were so placed that they looked whole. Leeby’s 
black merino was hanging near the window in a 
good light, and Jess’s Sabbath bonnet, which was 
never worn, occupied a nail beside it. The tea- 
things stood on a tray in the kitchen bed, whence 
they could be quickly brought into the room, just 
as if they were always ready to be used daily. 
Leeby, as yet in dishabille, was shaving her father 


at a tremendous rate, and Jess, looking as fresh as 
a daisy, was ready to receive the visitors. She was 
peering through the tiny window-blind looking 
for them. 

“Be cautious, Leeby,” Hendry was saying, 
when Jess shook her hand at him. “ Wheesht! ” 
she whispered ; “ they’re cornin’.” 

Hendry was hustled into his Sabbath coat, and 
then came a tap at the door—a very genteel tap. 
Jess nodded to Leeby, who softly shoved Hendry 
into the room. 

The tap was repeated, but Leeby pushed her 
father into a chair and thrust Barrow’s “ Sermons ” 
open into his hand. Then she stole about the house, 
and swiftly buttoned her wrapper, speaking to Jess 
by nods the while. There was a third knock, 
whereupon Jess said, in a loud, Englishy voice; 

“ Was that not a chap [knock] at the door? ” 

Hendry was about to reply, but she shook her 
fist at him. Next moment Leeby opened the 
door. I was upstairs, but I heard Jess say: 

“Dear me, if it’s not Mrs. Curly—and Mr. 
Curly. And hoo are ye ? Come in, by. Weel, 
this is, indeed, a pleasant surprise! ” 







FOUR MODERN NOVELISTS. 

GEORGE DU MAURIER, A. CONAN DOYLE, 

RUDYARD KIPLING, T. HALL CAINE. 



OTWITHSTANDING the advice so frequently given and insisted 
upon by the wise and learned, never to read a book less than a 
hundred years old, there will always be the greatest manifestation 
of interest in the literature that is new and fresh, and, by reason of 
its subject matter or its style, particularly adapted to the tastes of 
the present time. Among the men who have contributed largely 
to the pleasure of the reading public during the last ten years, 
the four whose names head this article fill a most important place. They are 
grouped together, not on account of any similarity in their writings, for four men 
could hardly write in more widely different strains; but they are alike in the posses¬ 
sion of some masterful quality which seizes and maintains the interest of the reader 
in a degree hardly equaled by any other contemporary writers. 

George Du Maurier was the son of a Frenchman, who married an English¬ 
woman in Paris. The family removed to Belgium, and thence to London. The 
elder Du Maurier was an amateur of science, and it is said that by some unsuc¬ 
cessful experiments he greatly reduced the family fortunes. He had set his heart 
upon attaching his son to scientific pursuits, and the boy was therefore put to 
study chemistry under Doctor Williamson, in London. His tastes, however, lay so 
strongly in a different direction that he did little good in the laboratory. 

At his father’s death, in 1856, when he was twenty-two years old, Du Maurier 
devoted himself to art, studying in the British Museum, and afterward in 
Paris, where he lived the life of an art student, which he afterward described so 
delightfully in “Trilby.” Going to Antwerp, in 1857, he devoted himself so 
closely to his studies that his sight was seriously impaired, and he finally lost the 
use of his left eye and endured two years of enforced idleness. He obtained 
employment, however, in drawing for various illustrated magazines, and, in 1864, 
was regularly attached to the staff of Punch, for which periodical he continued 
to work until his death in 1896. His subjects were drawn almost exclusively from 
society. Artists, professional people, and successful merchants, with an occasional 
figure from the more aristocratic circles, furnish almost all the subjects for 
Du Manner’s pictures. He had never written a book until the production of 

224 
















FOUR MODERN NOVELISTS. 


225 


“Peter Ibbetson,” which appeared in Harper's Magazine in 1891 ; but it may be 
fairly said that he had considerable literary experience, for he used to spend as 
much time upon the construction of the dialogues which accompanied his pictures 
as upon the pictures themselves. “ Peter Ibbetson ” was a great popular success. 
It was followed, in 1894, by “Trilby,” published in the same magazine, of which 
two hundred and fifty thousand copies have been sold. Du Maurier had sold the 
book for two thousand pounds; but its success was so great that the publishers felt 
justified in giving him a royalty, paying him at one time forty thousand dollars, and 
sharing with him the income which they received from the dramatization of the work. 
For the “Martian,” completed just before his death, he received ten thousand 
pounds. These three books comprise the literary work of George Du Maurier. 
They did not deal with high themes, and his books have met with severe criticism ; 
but there is in them a keenness of vision, an intimate knowledge of human nature, 
and a grasp of certain elements of beauty in character, which have been equaled 
by no other writer, and seem to promise permanence for his work. 

RUDYARD KIPLING. 

Another writer who has violated the canons of literary art, and in this viola¬ 
tion been supported by the united voice of the greater number of critics, as well as 
by the multitude of.readers, is Rudyard Kipling. 

Kipling was born in 1865, astonishing as it may seem, has, since 1885, 

published twenty-six different volumes of prose and verse. His facility, his grace, 
the ease and beauty of his verse, his disregard for certain conventionalities, and his 
audacity, have perhaps all contributed to his undoubted great success. He has 
somehow had the penetration to discover a new mine of literary material, and has 
worked in it, not only with success, but to the satisfaction of the world at large. 

Rudyard Kipling was born in Calcutta, and, after his school-days in England, 
returned to India, and entered upon newspaper work as subeditor and war cor¬ 
respondent. He began at twenty-one to publish verses, taking the subject-matter 
from Indian life. “ Plain Tales from the Hills,” “Soldiers Three,” “The Gadsbys,” 
“‘In Black and White,” “Under the Deodars,” “The Phantom ’Rickshaw,” and 
Wee Willie Winkie,” all appeared within a single year and appealed to the Eng¬ 
lish public with such freshness and vigor that when Kipling returned to England, 
in 1889, he found himself already famous. In 1891 he formed the friendship of 
Wolcott Balestier, with whom he wrote “ Naulahka,” and whose sister he married. 
Eor three years he lived near the Balestier home in Vermont and then returned to 
London. 

Kipling is intensely fond of out-door life. He is not a great hunter, but is 
exceedingly fond of fishing, and when he was preparing “ Captain Courageous,” 
a story of New England fisherman life, he spent some weeks at Gloucester, making 
an intimate acquaintance with the actual life he was to portray. But perhaps no 
books of Kipling’s are so widely known as the two collections of stories of animal 
life called the “Jungle Books.” The wolves, the tiger, the elephants, and the oxen 
in these jungle stories talk and act in a way that makes the reader almost ready to 
believe that they are actually true. The imaginary republic of animals which Kip- 
15 


226 


FOUR MODERN NOVELISTS. 


ling has portrayed, the laws of the wolf-pack, their contempt for mankind, their 
characteristic virtues, and their crimes against the law and order of their commu¬ 
nity, are all worked out with a vividness and truth which stamps their author as a 
genius indeed. A recent critic has said that Kipling is a poet of highly magnet¬ 
ized metal which attracts or repels alike very strongly, so those who insist that 
literature must be serious, dignified, and ceremonious, who think of Spenser as the 
model poet, will be repelled by Kipling’s familiarity and his lack of reverence. 
Those who appreciate the musical quality in poetry, and an insight into the laws 
of nature, can not but acknowledge that he is not only a genius but a genuine 
artist. 

Besides those already mentioned, some of his most important books are “The 
City of Dreadful Night and Other Places,” “Departmental Ditties,” “The Light 
that Failed,” “ Many Inventions,” and “ My First Book.” 

A. COXAN DOYLE. 

Like Du Maurier and Kipling, Doyle had excelled In a field of his own ; but 
the likeness to them is only in this singularity and in the popularity of his work. 
Dr. Doyle would like to be judged by the serious and laborious work of his historic 
romances ; but, in spite of himself, his fame will rest upon his creation of Sherlock 
Holmes, the wonderful detective who reasoned out from the smallest fragments the 
whole structure of the/crime which he is to decipher. 

Dr. Doyle Is the son of an artist, and was born in Edinburgh in 1859. He 
studied medicine, but in his early twenties definitely devoted himself to literature. 
His industry and studiousness are no less remarkable than his constructive faculty, 
and for his romance of “ The White Company ” he is said to have read more than 
two hundred books, and he devoted to it over two years of labor. He has 
described in his historical novels the England of the time of Edward III, James II, 
and of to-day: the Scotland of George III; the France of Edward III, of Louis 
XIV, and of Napoleon, and the America of Frontenac, and his fidelity to historical 
detail Is no less marked than his success as a story-teller. His other famous works 
are “The Great Shadow” and “ Micah Clarke” ; but, as we have already said, he 
Is most widely known by the series of detective stories which related the adventures 
and achievements of Sherlock Holmes. 

THOMAS HENRY HALL CAINE. 

Hall Caine has had the good fortune to find in the life of his native island the 
literary material upon which he has based his most successful work. He is the 
contemporary writer most distinguished by the elaborate care with which his work is 
done. Of the writing of his first story, “ The Shadow of a Crime,” he says, “Shall 
I ever forget the agonies of the first efforts? It took me nearly a fortnight to start 
that novel, sweating drops as of blood at every fresh attempt.” It is said that the 
first half of this book was written at least four times, and after it was completed, 
more than half of the book was destroyed in order to use a fresh suggestion. If it 
is true that genius is a capacity for infinitely taking pains, then certainly Hall Caine 
is a genius; but such a proof as this is truly superfluous, for no one can read “The 


FOUR MODERN NOVELISTS. 


227 


Deemster,” “The Bondman,” “The Scapegoat,” “The Last Confession,” “Cap’n 
Davy’s Honeymoon,” or “The Manxman” without acknowledging that here is the 
work of a master hand and the evidence of genius unexcelled in the art of our 
time. 

Mr. Hall Caine is a native of the Isle of Man, and began his career as an 
architect in Liverpool. In 1871, when he was eighteen years old, he had already 
done some literary work, and a little later he earned ten pounds by writing for some 
one else an alleged autobiography. He has interested himself in behalf of the per¬ 
secuted Jews in Russia, and in 1895 came to the United States and Canada, repre¬ 
senting the English Society of Authors, and obtained some important copyright 
concessions from the Canadian Parliament. His principal home is at Greeba 
Castle on the Isle of Man, and he is much beloved by the people among whom he 
lives. 

Beside the stories which have been mentioned, he has written “ Recollection 
of Rossetti,” “Sonnets of Three Centuries,” “Cobwebs of Criticism,” “The Life 
of Coleridge,” and “The Christian,” and it is reasonable to believe that his great 
literary work is nowhere near completed. 



HOW WKE WILLIE WINKIE WON HIS SPURS. 
BY RUDYARD KIPLING. 


ERY early the next morning he climbed on 
to the roof of the house—that was not 
forbidden—and beheld Miss Allardyce 
going for a ride. 

“Where are you going?” cried Wee Willie 
Winkie. 

“Across the river,” she answered, and trotted 
forward. 

Now the cantonment in which the 195th lay 
was bounded on the north by a river—dry in the 
winter. From his earliest years, Wee Willie 
Winkie had been forbidden to go across the river, 
and had noted that even Coppy—the almost al¬ 
mighty Coppy—had never set foot beyond it. 
Wee Willie Winkie had once been read to, out of 
a big blue book, the history of the Princess and 
the Goblins—a most wonderful tale of a land 
where the Goblins were always warring with the 
children of men until they were defeated by one 
Curdie. Ever since that date it seemed to him 
that the bare black and purple hills across the 


river were inhabited by Goblins, and, in truth, 
every one had said that there lived the Bad Men. 
Even in his own house the lower halves of the 
windows were covered with green paper on ac¬ 
count of the Bad Men who might, if allowed 
clear view, fire into peaceful drawing-rooms and 
comfortable bedrooms. Certainly, beyond the 
river, which was the end of all the Earth, lived 
the Bad Men. And here was Major Allardyce’s 
big girl, Coppy’s property, ]wei)aring to venture 
into their borders ! What would Coppy say if any¬ 
thing happened to her? If the Goblins ran off 
with her as they did wfith Curdie’s Princess? She 
must at all hazards be turned back. 

The house Avas still. Wee Willie Winkie 
reflected for a moment on the very terrible wrath 
of his father; and then—broke his arrest! It 
was a crime unspeakable. The low sun threw his 
shadow, very large and very black, on the trim 
garden-paths, as he went down to the stables and 
ordered his pony. It seemed to him in the hush 









228 


FOUR MODERN NOVELISTS. 


of the dawn that all the big world had been bid¬ 
den to stand still and look at Wee Willie Winkie 
guilty of mutiny. The drowsy groom handed 
him his mount, and, since the one great sin made 
all others insignificant. Wee Willie Winkie said 
that he was going to ride over to Coppy Sahib, 
and went out at a foot-pace, stepping on the soft 
mould of the flower-borders. 

The devastating track of the pony’s feet was 
the last misdeed that cut him off from all sympa¬ 
thy of Humanity. He turned into the road, 
leaned forward, and rode as fast as the pony could 
put foot to the ground in the direction of the 
river. 

But the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can do 
little against the long canter of a Waler. Miss 
Allardyce was far ahead, had passed through the 
crops, beyond the Police-post, when all the guards 
were asleep, and her mount was scattering the 
pebbles of the river-bed as Wee Willie Winkie 
left the cantonment and British India behind 
him. Bowed forward and still flogging, Wee 
Willie Winkie shot into Afghan territory, and 
could just see Miss Allardyce a black speck, flick¬ 
ering across the stony plain. The reason of her 
wandering was simple enough. Coppy, in a tone 
of too-hastily-assumed authority, had told her 
overnight that she must not ride out by the river. 
And she had gone to prove her own spirit and 
teach Coppy a lesson. 

Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills. 
Wee Willie Winkie saw the Waler blunder and 
come down heavily. Miss Allardyce struggled 
clear, but her ankle had been severely twisted, 
and she could not stand. Having thus demon¬ 
strated her spirit, she wept copiously, and was 
surprised by the apparition of a white, wide-eyed 
child in khaki, on a nearly spent pony. 

Are you badly, badly hurted ? ” shouted Wee 
Willie Winkie, as soon as he was within range. 
“ You did n’t ought to be here.” 

“ I do n’t know,” said Miss Allardyce ruefully, 
ignoring the reproof. “Good gracious, child, 
what are doing here? ” 

“You said you was going acwoss ve wiver,” 
panted Wee Willie Winkie, throwing himself off 
his i)ony. “ And nobody—not even Coppy— 


must go acwoss ve wiver, and I came after you 
ever so hard, but you wouldn’t stop, and now 
you’ve hurted yourself, and Coppy will be angwy 
wiv me, and—I’ve bwoken my awwest! I’ve 
bwoken my aw'west! ” 

The future Colonel of the 195th sat down and 
sobbed. In spite of the pain in her ankle the girl 
was moved. 

“Have you ridden all the way from canton¬ 
ments, little man? What for?” 

“You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me 
so!” wailed Wee Willie Winkie disconsolately. 
“ I saw him kissing you, and he said he was fonder 
of you van Bell or ve Butcha or me. And so I 
came. You must get up and come back. You 
did n’t ought to be here. Vis is a bad place, and 
I’ve bwoken my awwest.” 

“I can’t move, Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, 
with a groan. “I’ve hurt my foot. What shall 
I do?” 

She showed a readiness to weep afresh, which 
steadied Wee Willie Winkie, who had been 
brought up to believe that tears were the depth of 
unmanliness. Still, when one is as great a sinner 
as Wee Willie Winkie, even a man may be per¬ 
mitted to break down. 

“ Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, “ when you’ve 
rested a little, ride back and tell them to send out 
something to carry me back in. It hurts fear¬ 
fully.” 

The child sat still for a little time and Miss 
Allardyce closed her eyes; the pain was nearly 
making her faint. She was roused by Wee Willie 
Winkie tying up the reins on his pony’s neck and 
setting it free with a vicious cut of his whip that 
made it whicker. The little animal headed to¬ 
ward the cantonments. 

“ Oh, Winkie ! What are you doing ? ” 

“ Hush ! ” said Wee Willie Winkie. “ Vere’s 
a man coming—one of ve Bad Men. I must stay 
wiv you. My faver says a man must always look 
after a girl. Jack will go home, and ven vey’ll 
come and look for us. Vat’s why I let him go.” 

Not one man but two or three had appeared 
from behind the rocks of the hills, and the heart 
of Wee Willie Winkie sank within him, for just in 
this manner were the Goblins wont to steal out 




FOUR MODERN NOVELISTS. 


and vex Curdie’s soul. Thus had they played in 
Curdie’s garden, he had seen the picture, and thus 
had they frightened the Princess’ nurse. He 
heard them talking to each other, and recognized 
with joy the bastard Pushto (dialect) that he had 
picked up from one of his father’s grooms lately 
dismissed. People who spoke that tongue could 
not be the Bad Men. They were only natives 
after all. 

They came up to the bowlders on which Miss 
Allardyce’s horse had blundered. 

Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, 
child of the Dominant Race, aged six and three- 
quarters, and said briefly and emphatically 

Jao ! ” The pony had crossed the river-bed. 

The men laughed, and laughter from natives 
was the one thing Wee Willie Winkie could not 
tolerate. He asked them what they wanted and 
why they did not depart. Other men with most 
evil faces and crooked-stocked guns crept out of 
the shadows of the hills, till, soon. Wee Willie 
Winkie was face to face with an audience some 
twenty strong. Miss Allardyce screamed. 

“ Who are you ? ” said one of the men. 

“ I am the Colonel Sahib’s son, and my order 
is that you go at once. You black men are fright¬ 
ing the Miss Sahib. One of you must run into 
cantonments and take the news that the Miss 
Sahib has hurt herself, and that the Colonel’s son 
is here with her. ” 

“ Put our feet into the trap ? ” was the laughing 
reply. “ Hear this boy’s speech ! ” 

“Say that I sent you—I, the Colonel’s son. 
They will give you money.” 

“What is the use of this talk? Take up the 
child and the girl, and we can at least ask for the 
ransom. Ours are the villages on the heights,” 
said a voice in the background. 

These tvere the Bad Men—worse than Goblins 
—and it needed all Wee Willie Winkie’s training 
to prevent him from bursting into tears. But he 
felt that to cry before a native, excepting only his 
mother’s ayah, would be an infamy greater than 
any mutiny. Moreover, he, as future Colonel of 
the 195th, had that grim regiment at his back. 

“ Are you going to carry us away? ” said Wee 
Willie Winkie, very blanched and uncomfortable. 


229 

“Yes, my little Sahib Bahadur," said the tall¬ 
est of the men, “ and eat you afterward.” 

“That is child’s talk,” said Wee Willie Win¬ 
kie. “ Men do not eat men.” 

A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went 
on firmly,—“ And if you do carry us away, I tell 
you that all my regiment will come up in a day and 
kill you all without leaving one. Who will take 
my message to the Colonel Sahib? ” 

Speech in any vernacular—and Wee Willie 
Winkie had a colloquial acquaintance with three 
—was easy to the boy who could not yet manage 
his “ r’s ” and “ th’s ” aright. 

Another man joined the conference, crying; 
“ O foolish men ! What this babe says is true. 
He is the heart’s heart of those white troops. For 
the sake of peace let them go both, for if he be 
taken, the regiment will break loose and gut the 
valley. Our villages are in the valley, and we 
shall not escape. That regiment are devils. I'hey 
broke Khoda Yar’s breast-bone with kicks when 
he tried to take the rifles; and if we touch this 
child they will fire, and rape, and plunder for a 
month, till nothing remains. Better to send a 
man back to take the message and get a reward. 
I say that this child is their God, and that they 
will spare none of us, nor our women, if we harm 
him.” 

It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom 
of the Colonel, who made the diversion, and an 
angry and heated discussion followed. Wee Wil¬ 
lie Winkie, standing over Miss Allardyce, waited 
the upshot. Surely his “wegiment,” his own 
“wegiment,” would not desert him if they knew 
of his extremity. 

The riderless pony brought the news to the 
195th, though there had been consternation in the 
Colonel’s household for an hour before. The 
little beast came in through the parade-ground in 
front of the main barracks, where the men were 
settling down to play Spoil-five till the after¬ 
noon. Devlin, the Color Sergeant of E Company, 
glanced at the empty saddle and tumbled through 
the barrack-rooms, kicking up each Room Cor- 
l)oral as he passed. “Up, ye beggars! There’s 



FOUR MODERN NOVELISTS. 


230 

something happened to the Colonel’s son,” he 
shouted. 

“ He could n’t fall off! S’elp me, ’e couldn't 
fall off,” blubbered a drummer-boy. “Go an’ 
hunt acrost the river. He’s over there if he’s 
anywhere, an’ maybe those Pathans have got ’im. 
For the love o’ Gawd don’t look for ’im in the 
nullahs 1 Let’s go over the river.” 

“There’s sense in Mott yet,” said Devlin, 
“ E Company, double out to the river—sharp! ” 

So E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly, 
doubled for the dear life, and in the rear toiled 
the perspiring Sergeant, adjuring it to double yet 
faster. The cantonment was alive with the men 
of the 195th hunting for Wee Willie Winkie, and 
the Colonel finally overtook E Company, far too 
exhausted to swear, struggling in the pebbles of 
the river-bed. 


Up the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie’s 
Bad Men were discussing the wisdom of carrying 
off the child and the girl, a lookout fired two 
shots. 

“ What have I said ? ” shouted Din Mahommed. 
“There is the warning! The pulto?i are out 
already and are coming across the plain ! Get 
away ! Let us not be seen with the boy ! ” 

The men waited for an instant, and then, as 
another shot was fired, withdrew into the hills, 
silently as they had appeared. 

“The wegiment is coming,” said Wee Willie 
Winkie, confidently, to Miss Allardyce, “ and it’s 
all wight. Do n’t cwy ! ” 

He needed the advice himself, for ten minutes 
later, when his father came up, he was weeping 
bitterly with his head in Miss Allardyce’s lap. 


-. 0 ^ 0 .- 


THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION. 

From “The Sign of the Four.” By A. Conan Doyle. 


HERLOCK HOLMES took his bottle from 
the corner of the mantelpiece, and his hy¬ 
podermic syringe from its neat morocco 
case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he 
adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his 
left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested 
thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, 
all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture- 
marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, 
pressed down the tiny piston, and sunk back into 
the velvet-lined arm-chair with a long sigh of satis¬ 
faction. 

Three times a day for many months I had wit¬ 
nessed this performance, but custom had not 
reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, 
from day to day I had become more irritable at 
the sight, and my conscience swelled nightly 
within me at the thought that I had lacked the 
courage to protest. Again and again I had 
registered a vow that I should deliver my soul 
upon the subject, but there was that in the cool, 
nonchalent air of my companion which made him 
the last man with whom one would care to take 
anything approaching to a liberty. His great 


powers, his masterly manner, and the experience 
which I had had of his many extraordinary quali¬ 
ties, all made me diffident and backward in cross¬ 
ing him. 

Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the 
claret which I had taken with my lunch, or the 
additional exasperation produced by the extreme 
deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I 
could hold out no longer. 

“Which is it to-day?” I asked. “Morphine 
or cocaine ? ” 

He raised his eyes languidly from the old black- 
letter volume which he had opened. “It is co¬ 
caine,” he said; “a seven per cent, solution. 
Would you care to try it ? ” 

“No, indeed,” I answered, brusquely. “ My con¬ 
stitution has not got over the Afghan campaign yet. 
I can not afford to throw any extra strain upon it.” 

He smiled at my vehemence. “ Perhaps you 
are right, Watson,” he said. “ I suppose that its 
influence is physically a bad one. I find it, how¬ 
ever, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying 
to the mind that its secondary action is a matter 
of small moment.” 







FOUR MODERN NOVELISTS. 


231 


“But consider!” I said, earnestly. “Count 
the cost I Your brain may, as you say, be roused 
and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid 
process, which involves increased tissue-change, 
and may at last leave a permanent weakness. You 
know, too, what a black reaction comes upon you. 
Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why 
should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the 
loss of those great powers with which you have 
been endowed ? Remember that I speak not only 
as one comrade to another, but as a medical man 
to one for whose constitution he is to some extent 
answerable.” 

He did not seem offended. On the contrary, 
he put his finger-tips together and leaned his 
elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who has 
a relish for conversation. 

“My mind,” he said, “rebels at stagnation. 
Give me problems, give me work, give me the 
most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate 
analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. 

I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. 
But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave 
for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen 
my own particular profession—or rather created 
it, for I am the only one in the world.” 

“The only unofficial detective?” I said, rais¬ 
ing my eyebrows. 

“The only unofficial consulting detective,” he 
answered. “ I am the last and highest court of 
appeal in detection. When Gregson, orLestrade, 
or Athelney Jones are out of their depths—which, 
by the way, is their normal state—the matter is 
laid before me. I examine the data, as an expert, 
and pronounce a specialist’s opinion. I claim no 
credit in such cases. My name figures in no 
newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of find¬ 
ing a field for my peculiar powers, is my highest 
reward. But you have yourself had some exiteri- 
ence of my methods of work in the Jefferson Hope 
case.” 

“Yes, indeed,” said I, cordially. “I was 
never so struck by anything in my life. I even 
embodied it in a small brochure with the some¬ 
what fantastic title of ‘A Study in Scarlet.’ ” 

He shook his head sadly. “ I glanced over it,” 
said he. “ Honestly, I can not congratulate you | 


upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact 
science, and should be treated in the same cold 
and unemotional manner. You have attempted 
to tinge it with romanticism, which produces 
much the same effect as if you worked a love story 
or an elopement into the fifth proposition of 
Euclid.” 

“But the romance was there,” I remonstrated. 
“ I could not tamper with the facts.” 

“ Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a 
just sense of proportion should be observed in 
treating them. The only point in the case which 
deserved mention was the curious analytical rea¬ 
soning from effects to causes by w'hich I succeeded 
in unraveling it. 

“ My practice has extended recently to the 
Continent,” said Holmes, after a while, filling up 
his old brier-root pipe. “ I was consulted last 
week by Francois le Yillard, who, as you probably 
know, has come rather to the front lately in the 
French detective service. He has all the Celtic 
power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in the 
wide range of exact knowledge which is essential 
to the higher developments of his art. The case 
was concerned with a will, and possessed some 
features of interest. I was able to refer him to 
two parallel cases; the one at Riga in 1857, and 
the other at St. Louis in 1871, which have sug¬ 
gested to him the true solution. Here is the letter 
which I had this morning acknowledging my as¬ 
sistance.” He tossed over, as he spoke, a crum¬ 
pled sheet of foreign note-paper. I glanced my 
eyes down it, catching a profusion of notes of ad¬ 
miration, with stray “ magnifiques,” “ coup-de- 
maitres,” and “ tours-de-force,” all testifying to 
the ardent admiration of the Frenchman. 

“ He speaks as a pupil to his master,” said I. 

“Oh, he rates my assistance too highly,” said 
Sherlock Holmes, lightly. “He has considerable 
gifts himself. He possesses two out of the three 
qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He 
has the power of observation and that of deduc¬ 
tion. He is only wanting in knowledge; and 
that may come in time. He is now translating 
my small works into French.” 

“ Your w'orks ? ” 

“Oh, didn’t you know?” he cried, laugh- 



232 


FOUR MODERN NOVELISTS. 


ing. “Yes, I have been guilty of several mono¬ 
graphs. They are all upon technical subjects. 
Here, for example, is one ‘Upon the Distinction 
Between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos.’ In 
it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms of cigar, 
cigarette, and pipe tobacco, with colored plates 
illustrating the difference in the ash. It is a point 
which is continually turning up in criminal trials, 
and which is sometimes of supreme importance as 
a clew. If you can say definitely, for example, 
that some murder has been done by a man who 
was smoking an Indian lunkah, it obviously nar¬ 
rows your field of search. To the trained eye 
there is as much difference between the black ash 
of a Trinchinopoly and the white fluff of bird’s-eye 
as there is between a cabbage and a potato.” 

“You have an extraordinary genius for minu¬ 
tiae,” I remarked. 

“ I appreciate their importance. Here is my 
monograph upon the tracing of footsteps, with 
some remarks upon the uses of plaster of paris as a 
preserver of impresses. Here, too, is a curious 
little work upon the influence of a trade upon the 
form of the hand, Avith lithotypes of the hands of 
slaters, sailors, cork-cutters, compositors, weavers, 
and diamond-polishers. That is a matter of great 
practical interest to the scientific detective—espe¬ 
cially in cases of unclaimed bodies, or in discov¬ 
ering the antecedents of criminals. But I weary 
you with my hobby.” 

“Not at all,” I answered, earnestly. “ It is 
of the greatest interest to me, especially since I 
have had the opportunity of observing your prac¬ 
tical application of it. But you spoke just now 
of observation and deduction. Surely the one to 
some extent implies the other.” 

“Why, hardly,” he answered, leaning back 
luxuriously in his arm-chair, and sending up thick 
blue wreaths from his pipe. “ For example, ob¬ 
servation shows me that you have been to the 
Wigmore Street post-office this morning, but de¬ 
duction lets me know that when there you dis¬ 
patched a telegram.” 

“Right!” said I. “Right on both points ! 
But I confess that I don’t see how you arrived at 
it. It was a sudden impulse on my part, and I 
have mentioned it to no one.” 


“ It is simplicity itself,” he remarked, chuckling 
at my surprise; “so absurdly simple that an ex¬ 
planation is superfluous ; and yet it may serve to 
define the limits of observation and of deduction. 
Observation tells me that you have a little reddish 
mold adhering to your instep. Just opposite the 
Wigmore Street office they have taken up the 
pavement and thrown up some earth which lies in 
such a way that it is difficult to avoid treading in 
it in entering. The earth is of this peculiar red¬ 
dish tint Avhich is found, so far as I know, no¬ 
where else in the neighborhood. So much is 
observation. The rest is deduction.” 

“ How, then, did you deduce the telegram? ” 

“ Why, of course I knew that you had not 
written a letter, since I sat opposite to you all the 
morning. I see also in your open desk there that 
you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of 
post-cards. What could you go into the post- 
office for, then, but to send a wire? Eliminate 
all other factors, and the one which remains must 
be the truth.” 

“ In this case it certainly is so,” I replied, after 
a little thought. “The thing, however, is, as you 
say, of the simplest. Would you think me im¬ 
pertinent if I were to put your theories to a more 
severe test? ” 

“On the contrary,” he answered, “ it would 
prevent me from taking a second dose of cocaine. 
I should be delighted to look into any problem 
which you might submit to me.” 

“ I have heard you say that it is difficult for a 
man to have any object in daily use without leav¬ 
ing the impress of his individuality upon it in 
such a way that a trained observer might read it. 
Now, I have here a watch which has recently come 
into my possession. Would you have the kindness 
to let me have an opinion upon the character or 
habits of the late owner? ” 

I handed him the watch with some slight feeling 
of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as 1 
thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a 
lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which 
he occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch 
in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the 
back, and examined the works, first with his 
naked eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. 



FOUR MODERN NOVELISTS. 


233 


I could hardly keep from smiling at his crestfallen 
face, when he finally snapped the case to and 
handed it back. 

‘‘There are hardly any data,” he remarked. 
“ The watch has been recently cleaned, which 
robs me of my most suggestive facts.” 

‘‘ You are right,” I answered. “ It was cleaned 
before being sent to me.” In my heart I ac¬ 
cused my companion of putting forward a most 
lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure. What 
data could he expect from an uncleaned watch ? 

‘‘Though unsatisfactory, my research has not 
been entirely barren,” he observed, staring up at 
the ceiling with dreamy, lack-luster eyes. “ Sub¬ 
ject to your correction, I should judge that the 
watch belonged to your elder brother, who inher¬ 
ited it from your father.” 

“That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. 
upon the back? ” 

“Quite so. The W. suggests your own name. 
The date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, 
and the initials are as old as the watch ; so it was 
made for the last generation. Jewelry usually de¬ 
scends to the eldest son, and he is most likely to 
have the same name as his father. Your father 
has, if I remember right, been dead many years. 
It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest 
brother.” 

“ Right, so far, ” said I. “ Anything else ? ” 

“ He was a man of untidy habits—very untidy 
and careless. He was left with good prospects, 
but he threw away his chances, lived for some time 
in poverty, with occasional short intervals of 
prosperity, and finally, taking to drink, he died. 
That is all I can gather.” 

I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently 
about the room with considerable bitterness in my 
heart. 

“ This is unworthy of you. Holmes,” I said. “I 
could not have believed that you would have de¬ 
scended to this. You have made inquiries into 
the history of my unhappy brother, and you now 
pretend to deduce this knowledge in some fanciful 
way. You can not expect me to believe that you 
have read all this from his old watch ! It is un¬ 
kind, and, to speak plainly, has a touch of char¬ 
latanism in it.” 


“ My dear doctor,” said he, kindly, “ pray 
accept my apologies. Viewing the matter as an 
abstract problem, I had forgotten how personal 
and painful a thing it might be to you. I 
assure you, however, that I never even knew 
that you had a brother until you handed me 
the watch.” 

“Then how in the name of all that is wonder¬ 
ful did you get all these facts ? They are abso¬ 
lutely correct in every particular.” 

“Ah, that is good luck. I could only say 
what was the balance of probability. I did not 
at all expect to be so accurate.” 

“ But it was not mere guesswork ? ” 

“No, no; I never guess. It is a shocking 
habit—destructive to the logical faculty. What 
seems strange to you is only so because you do not 
follow my train of thought or observe the small 
facts upon which large inferences may depend. 
For example, I began by stating that your brother 
was careless. When you observe the lower part 
of that watchcase, you notice that it is not only 
dented in two places, but it is cut and marked alt 
over from the habit of keeping other hard objects,, 
such as coins or keys, in the same pocket. Surely 
it is no great feat to assume that a man who treats 
a fifty-guinea watch so cavalierly must be a care¬ 
less man. Neither is it a very far fetched infer¬ 
ence that a man who inherits one article of 
such value is pretty well provided for in other 
respects-” 

I nodded to show that I followed his reason¬ 
ing. 

“It is very customary for pawnbrokers in Eng¬ 
land, when they take a watch, to scratch the num¬ 
ber of the ticket with a pin-point upon the inside 
of the case. It is more handy than a label, as 
there is no risk of the number being lost or trans¬ 
posed. There are no less than four such numbers 
visible to my lens on the inside of this case. In¬ 
ference—that your brother was often at low water. 
Secondary inference—that he had occasional 
bursts of prosperity, or he could not have redeemed 
the pledge. Finally, I ask you to look at the 
inner plate, which contains the keyhole. Look at 
the thousands of scratches all round the hole— 
marks where the key has slipped. What sober 



234 


FOUR MODERN NOVELISTS. 


man’s key could have scored those grooves ? But 
you will never see a drunkard’s watch without 
them. He winds it at night, and he leaves these 

• i 

HYMN BY RUr 

On the Occasion of the 

B od of our fathers, known of old— 

Lord of our far-flung battle line. 
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine— 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. 

Lest we forget—lest we forget! 

The tumult and the shouting dies— 

The captains and the kings depart. 

Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, 

An humble and a contrite heart. 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. 

Lest we forget—lest we forget! 

Far-called our navies melt away— 

On dune and headland sinks the fire ; 

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 


traces of his unsteady hand. Where is the mystery 
in all this? ” 

“ It is as clear as daylight,” I answered. 

O*— 

fARD KIPLING. . 

'UEEn’s Jubilee, July, 1897. 

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre ! 

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet. 

Lest we forget—lest we forget! 

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe— 
Such boasting as the Gentiles use 
Or lesser breeds without the Law— 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet. 

Lest we forget—lest we forget! 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 
In reeking tube and iron shard— 

All valiant dust that builds on dust, 

And guarding calls not Thee to guard— 

For frantic boast and foolish word. 

Thy mercy on Thy people. Lord ! 

Amen. 


THE GOOD BISHOP. 


From “ The Deemster 
SECOND month went by; the second 
eight hundred bushels were consumed, 
and the famine showed no abatement. 
The bishop waited for vessels from Liverpool, but 
no vessels came. He was a poor priest, with a 
great title, and he had little money ; but he wrote 
to England, asking fora thousand bushels of grain 
and five hundred kischen of potatoes, and promised 
to pay at six days after the next annual revenue. 
A week of weary waiting ensued, and every day 
the bishop cheered the haggard folk that came to 
Bishop’s Court with accounts of the provisions 
that wefe coming; and every day they went up 
onto the head of the hill, and strained their 
bleared eyes seaward for the sails of an English 
ship. When patience was worn to despair, the 
old ^‘King Orry” brought the bishop a letter 
saying that the drought had been general, that 
the famine was felt throughout the kingdom, 
and that an embargo had been put on all food to 
forbid traders to send it from English shores. 


’ By T. Hall Caine. 

Then the voice of the hungry multitudes went up 
in one deep cry of pain. The hunger is on us,” 
they moaned. “Poor once, poor forever,” they 
muttered ; and the voice of the bishop was silent. 

Just at that moment a further disaster threatened 
the people. Their cattle, which they could not 
sell, they had grazed on the mountains, and the 
milk of the cows had been the chief food of the 
children, and the wool of the sheep the only 
clothing of their old men. With parched meadows 
and curraghs, where the turf was so dry that it 
would take fire from the sun, the broad tops of 
the furze-covered hills M-ere the sole resource of 
the poor. At daybreak the shepherd with his six 
ewe lambs and one goat, and the day laborer with 
his cow, would troop up to where the grass looked 
greenest, and at dusk they would come down to 
shelter, with weary limbs and heavy hearts. 
“ What’s it sayin,” they would mutter, “a green 
hill when far from me; bare, bare, when it is 
near.” 










FOUR MODERN NOVELISTS. 


235 


At this crisis it began to be whispered that the | 
Deemster had made an offer to the lord to rent the 
whole stretch of mountain land from Ramsey to 
Peeltown. The rumor created consternation, and 
was not at first believed. But one day the Deem¬ 
ster, with the Governor of the Grand Inquest, [ 
drove to the glen at Sulby and went up the hill¬ 
side. Not long after, a light cart was seen to 
follow the liighroad to the glen beyond Ballaugh 
and then turn up toward the mountains by the 
cart-track. The people who were grazing their j 
cattle on the hills came down and gathered with ; 
the people of the valleys at the foot, and there I 
were dark faces and firm set lips among them, and 
hot words and deep oaths were heard. “Let’s 
off to the bishop,” said one, and they went to 
Bishop’s Court. Half an hour later the bishop 
came from Bishop’s Court at the head of a drag¬ 
gled company of men, and his face was white and 
hard. They overtook the cart half-way up the 
side of the mountain, and the bishop called on 
the driver to stop, and asked what he carried, and 
where he was going. The man answered that he 
had provisions for the governor, the Deemster, and 
the grand inquest, who were surveying the tops of 
the mountains. 

The bishop looked round, and his lip was set, 
and his nostrils quivered. “Can any man lend 
me a knife ? ” he asked with a strained quietness. 

A huge knife was handed to him, such as shep¬ 
herds carry in the long legs of their boots. He 
stepped to the cart and ripped up the harness, 
which was rope harness ; the shafts fell and the . 
horse was free. Then the bishop turned to the 
driver and said, very quietly: 

“ Where do you live, my man ? ” 

“At Sulby, my lord,” said the man, trembling 
with fear. 

“ You shall have leather harness to-morrow.” 

Then the bishop went on, his soiled and drag¬ 
gled company following him, the cart lying help¬ 
less in the cart-track behind them. 

When they got to the top of the mountain they 
could see the governor and the Deemster and their 
associates stretching the chain in the purple dis¬ 
tance. The bishop made in their direction, and j 
when he came up with them he said : | 


“Gentlemen, no food will reach you on the 
mountains to-day ; the harness on your cart has 
been cut, and cart and provisions are lying on the 
hillside.” 

At this Thorkell turned white with wrath, and 
clinched his fists, and stamped his foot on the 
turf, and looked piercingly into the faces of the 
bishop’s followers. 

“Assure as I’m Deemster,” he said, with an 
oath, “the man who has done this shall suffer. 
Don’t let him deceive himself—no one, not even 
the bishop himself, shall step in between that man 
and the punishment of the law.” 

The bishop listened with calmness, and then 
said: “Thorkell, the bishop will not intercede 
for him. Punish him if you can.” 

“ And so by God I will,” cried the Deemster, 
and his eye traversed the men behind his brother. 

The bishop then took a step forward, “/am 
that man,” he said, and then there was a great 
silence. 

Thorkell’s face flinched, his head fell between 
his shoulders, his manner grew dogged, he said 
not a word, his braggadocio was gone. 

The bishop approached the governor. “You 
have no more right to rent these mountains than 
to rent yonder sea,” he said, and he stretched his 
arm toward the broad blue line to the west. 
“They belong to God and to the poor. Let me 
warn you, sir, that as sure as you set up one stone 
to inclose these true God’s acres I shall be the 
first to pull that stone down.” 

The grand inquest broke up in confusion, and 
the mountains were saved to the people. 

It blew hard on the hill-top that day, and the 
next morning the news spread through the island 
that a ship laden with barley had put in from bad 
weather at Douglas Harbor. “And a terrible, 
wonderful sight of corn, plenty for all, plenty, 
plenty,” was the word that went round. In three 
hours’ time hundreds of men and women trooped 
down to the quay with money to buy. To all 
comers the master shook his head, and refused to 
sell. 

“Sell, man—sell, sell,” they cried. 

“ I can’t sell. The cargo is not mine. I’m a 
poor man myself,” said the master. 







236 


FOUR MODERN NOVELISTS 


“ Well, and what’s that it’s sayin’, ‘ When one 
poor man helps another poor man, God laughs.’ ” 

The bishop came to the ship’s side and tried to 
treat for the cargo. 

“ I’ve given bond to land it all at Whitehaven,” 
said the master. 

Then the people’s faces grew black, and deep 
oaths rose to their lips, and they turned and 
looked into each other’s eyes in their impotent 
rage. “ The hunger is on us—we can’t starve— 
let every herring hang by its own gill—let’s board 
her,” they muttered among themselves. 

And the bishop heard their threats. “ My 
people,” he said, “ what will become of this poor 
island unless God averts His awful judgments, 
only God Himself can know; but this good man 
has given his bond, and let us not bring on our 
heads God’s further displeasure.” 

There was a murmur of discontent, and then 
one long sigh of patient endurance, and then the 
bishop lifted his hands, and down on their knees 
on the quay the people with famished faces fell 
around the tall, drooping figure of the man of 
God, and from parched throats, and hearts well- 
nigh as dry, sent up a great cry to Heaven to 
grant them succor lest they should die. 

About a week afterward another ship put in by 
contrary winds at Castletown. It had a cargo of 
Welsh oats bound to Dumfries, on the order of 
the provost. The contrary winds continued, and 
the corn began to heat and spoil. The hungry 
populace, enraged by famine, called on the master 
to sell. He was powerless. Then the bishop 
walked over his “Pyrenees,” and saw that the 
food for which his people hungered was perishing 
before their eyes. When the master said “ No ” 
to him, as to others, he remembered how in old 
time David, being an hungered, did that which 
was not lawful in eating of the shewbread, and 
straightway he went up to Castle Rushen, got a 
comjiany of musketeers, returned with them to 
the ship’s side, boarded the ship, put the master 
and crew in irons, and took possession of the 
corn. 


What wild joy among the people ! What shouts 
were heard ; what tears rolled down the stony 
cheeks of stern men ! 

“ Patience !” cried the bishop. “Bring the 
market weights and scales.” 

The scales and weights were brought down to 
the quay and every bushel of the cargo was exactly 
weighed, and paid for at the prime price accord¬ 
ing to the master’s report. Then the master and 
crew were liberated, and the bishop paid the ship’s 
freight out of his own purse. W'hen he passed 
through the market-place on his way back to the 
Bishop’s Court the people followed with eyes that 
were almost too dim to see, and they blessed him 
in cheers that were sobs. 

And then God remembered His people, and 
their troubles passed away. With the opening 
spring the mackerel nets came back to the boats 
in shining silver masses, and peace and plenty 
came again to the hearth of the poorest. 

The Manxman knew his bishop now ; he knew 
him for the strongest soul in the dark hour, the 
serenest saint in the hour of light and peace. 
That hoary old dog, Billy the Gawk, took his 
knife and scratched “ B. M.” and the year of the 
Lord on the inside of his cupboard to record the 
advent of Bishop Mylrea. 

A mason from Ireland, a Catholic named Patrick 
Looney, was that day at work building the sqtiare 
tower of the church of the market-place, and when 
he saw the bishop pass under he went down on his 
knees on the scaffold and dropped his head for the 
good man’s blessing. 

A little girl of seven with sunny eyes and yellow 
hair stood by at that moment, and for love of the 
child’s happy face the bishop touched her head 
and said, “ God bless you, my sweet child.” 

The little one lifted her innocent eyes to his 
eyes, and answered, with a courtesy, “ And God 
bless you, too, sir.” 

“Thank you, child, thank you,” said the 
bishop, “ i do not doubt that your blessing will 
be as good as mine.” 

Such was Gilcrist Mylrea, Bishop of Man. 







.. Hill. . . . .... 

=E 

^ 0 00 00 0 r; 00 If; ff) 0 g) r; r) y) f) ft 0 #) if) ff) ft ^ hF) #> ri 

? = 


4> ^ ^ ife) y < 18 ^ y nt; Q © .6 4) iQ © © 4) © © © © (Ik) © u 0 ey 


tir? 




EDWARD GIBBON. 

HISTORIAN OF THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE. 



IBBON’S masterpiece has been described as the only history written 
in the eighteenth century which has withstood the criticism of the 
nineteenth. However this may be, it is a work w'hose monumental 
and enduring character is recognized throughout the world, and 
which has had no small part in forming the judgment of mankind 
upon the great period which it describes. 

Gibbon was born near London in 1737. He was a delicate 
child, and his early education was irregular. During his youth he was converted 
to the Roman Catholic faith, and for this reason was expelled from Oxford. Being 
put under the care of a Swiss theologian, he returned to the Protestant Church, 
but seems from this time to have been really indifferent to matters of faith. 

While in Switzerland he formed an attachment for the daughter of a Swiss 
clergyman ; but his father objecting to the match, he says he “sighed as a lover, 
but obeyed as a son.” The young lady did not break her heart, for she married 
Necker, the great French financier, and was the mother of Madame de Stael. 

He traveled in Southern Europe in 1764, and while “musing amidst the ruins 
of the Capitol” at Rome, he conceived the idea of his great historical work. It was 
not, however, until eleven years later that the first volume appeared, and the entire 
work occupied him until 1787. The style is elaborate, if not stilted. It lacks sim¬ 
plicity, but its accuracy of description, the immense knowledge of its author, and 
his general faithfulness to historic truth, have made it the greatest historical mas¬ 
terpiece in the language. Of the many editions, that of Dean Milman is acknowl¬ 
edged to be the best; and whoever would understand the causes which led to her 
downfall—that great nation which bequeathed to us the great body of our laws, 
and which was the true mother of modern civilization—must study the glowing 
pages of “The Decline and Fall.” 

For some years Gibbon was a member of Parliament, and took great interest 
in the political questions of the day, but his nature was so timid that he never 
summoned courage to address the House. During much of his later life he lived 
in Switzerland, but returning to England, died in London in 1794. 

























0 


EDWARD GIBBON, 


CONCEPTION AND COMPLETION OF HIS HISTORY. 
From His “ Autobiography.” 


T was at Rome, on the 15 th of October, 
1764, as I sat musing amidst the ruins of 
the Capitol, while the barefooted friars 
were singing vespers in the temple of Jupiter, that 
the idea of writing the decline and fall of the city 
first started to my mind. But my original plan 
was circumscribed to the decay of the city rather 
than of the empire ; and though my reading and 
reflections began to point toward that object, some 
years elapsed, and several avocations intervened, 
before I was seriously engaged in the execution of 
that laborious work. 

I have presumed to mark the moment of con¬ 
ception : I shall now commemorate the hour of 
my final deliverance. It was on the day, or rather 
night, of the 27th of June, 1787, between the 
hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last 
lines of the last page, in a summer-house in my 
garden. After laying down my pen I took several 
turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, 


which commands a prospect of the country, the 
lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, 
the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was 
reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent. 
I will not dissemble the first emotions of joy on 
recovery of my freedom, and, perhaps, the estab¬ 
lishment of my fame. But my pride was soon 
humbled, and a sober melancholy was spread over 
my mind, by the idea that I had taken an ever¬ 
lasting leave of an old and agreeable companion, 
and that, whatsoever might be the future date of 
my history, the life of the historian must be short 
and precarious. I will add two facts, which have 
seldom occurred in the composition of six, or at 
least of five quartos, i. My first rough manu- 
scrijit, without any intermediate copy, has been 
sent to the press. 2. Not a sheet has been seen 
by any human eyes, excepting those of the author 
and the printer ; the faults and the merits are 
exclusively my own. 



-. 0 ^ 0 . - 


CHARLEMAGNE. 

From “The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.” 


HE appellation of Great has been often be¬ 
stowed, and sometimes deserved, but 
Charlemagne is the only prince in whose 
favor the title has been indissolubly blended with 
the name. That name, with the addition of saint, 
is inserted in the Roman calendar; and the saint, 
by a rare felicity, is crowned with the praises of 
the historians and philosophers of an enlightened 
age. His real merit is doubtless enhanced by the 
barbarism of the nation and the times from which 
he emerged: but the apparent magnitude of an 
object is likewise enlarged by an unequal compari¬ 
son ; and the ruins of Palmyra derive a casual 
splendor from the nakedness of the surrounding 
desert. Without injustice to his fame I may dis¬ 
cern some blemishes in the sanctity and greatness 
of the restorer of the western empire. 

I shall be scarcely permitted to accuse the ambi¬ 
tion of a conquerer ; but in a day of equal retribu¬ 


tion the sons of his brother Carloman, the Mero-. 
vingian princes of Aquitain, and the four thou¬ 
sand five hundred Saxons who were beheaded on 
the same spot, would have something to allege 
against the justice and humanity of Charlemagne. 
His treatment of the vanquished Saxons was an 
abuse of the right of conquest: his laws were not less 
sanguinary than his arms, and in the discussion of 
his motives whatever is subtracted from bigotry 
must be imputed to temper. The sedentary 
reader is amazed by his incessant activity of mind 
and body; and his subjects and enemies were not 
less astonished at his sudden presence at the 
moment when they believed him at the most dis¬ 
tant extremity of the empire ; neither peace nor 
war, nor summer nor winter, were a season of re¬ 
pose ; and our fancy can not easily reconcile the 
annals of his reign with the geography of his ex¬ 
peditions. But this activity was a national rather 








EDWARD GIBBON. 


239 


than a personal virtue ; the vagrant life of a Frank 
was spent in the chase, in pilgrimage, in military 
adventures; and the journeys of Charlemagne were 
distinguished only by a more numerous train and 
a more important purpose. . . . I touch with 

reverence the laws of Charlemagne, so highly 
applauded by a respectable judge. They compose 
not a system but a series of occasional and minute 
edicts, for the correction of abuses, the reformation 
of manners, the economy of his farms, the care of 
his poultry, and even the sale of his eggs. He 
wished to improve the laws and the character of 
the Franks; and his attempts, however feeble and 
imperfect, are deserving of praise : the inveterate 
evils of the times were suspended or mollified by 
his government; but in his institutions I can 
seldom discover the general views and the immor¬ 
tal spirit of a legislator, who survives himself for 
the benefit of posterity. The union and stability 
of his empire depended on the life of a single 
man ; he imitated ihe dangerous practice of divid¬ 
ing his kingdoms amongst his sons; and after 
numerous diets the whole constitution was left to 
fluctuate between the disorders of anarchy and 
despotism. His esteem for the piety and knowl¬ 
edge of the clergy tempted him to intrust that as¬ 
piring order with temporal dominion and civil 
jurisdiction ; and his son Lewis, when he was 
stripped and degraded by the bishops, might 


accuse, in some measure, the imprudence of his 
father. His laws enforced the imposition of tithes, 
because the demons had proclaimed in the air that 
the default of payment had been the cause of the 
last scarcity. 

The literary merits of Charlemagne are attested 
by the foundation of schools, the introduction of 
arts, the works which were published in his name, 
and his familiar connection with the subjects and 
strangers whom he invited to his court to educate 
both the prince and the people. His own studies 
were tardy, laborious, and imperfect; if he spoke 
Latin and understood Greek, he derived the rudi¬ 
ments of knowledge from conversation rather than 
from books; and in his mature age the emperor 
strove to acquire the practice of writing, Avhich 
every peasant now learns in his infancy. The 
grammar and logic, the music and astronomy, of 
the times were only cultivated as the handmaids 
of superstition ; but the curiosity of the human 
mind must ultimately tend to its improvement, 
and the encouragement of learning reflects the 
purest and most pleasing luster on the character 
of Charlemagne. The dignity of his person, the 
length of his reign, the prosperity of his arms, 
the vigor of his government, and the reverence of 
distant nations, distinguish him from the royal 
crowd; and Europe dates a new era from his 
restoration of the western empire. 




MAHOMET. 

From “ Thf Dfcline and Fall of the Roman Empire.” 


CCORDING to the tradition of his com¬ 
panions, Mahomet was distinguished by 
the beauty of his person—an outward gift 
which is seldom despised, except by those to whom 
it has been refused. Before he spoke, the orator 
engaged on his side the affections of a public or 
private audience. They applauded his command¬ 
ing presence, his majestic aspect, his piercing eye, 
his gracious smile, his flowing beard, his counte¬ 
nance that painted every sensation of the soul, 
and his gestures that enforced each expression of 
the tongue. In the familiar offices of life he 
scrupulously adhered to the grave and ceremoni¬ 



ous politeness of his country : his respectful atten¬ 
tion to the rich and powerful was dignified by 
his condescension and affability to the poorest 
citizens of Mecca: the frankness of his manner 
concealed the artifice of his views; and the habits 
of courtesy w'ere imputed to personal friendship 
or universal benevolence. His memory was capa¬ 
cious and retentive, his wit easy and social, his 
imagination sublime, his judgment clear, rapid, 
and decisive. He possessed the courage both of 
thought and action; and although his designs 
might gradually expand with his success, the first 
idea which he entertained of his divine mission 






240 


EDWARD GIBBON. 


bears the stamp of an original and superior genius. 
The son of Abdallah was educated in the bosom 
of the noblest race, in the use of the purest dialect 
of Arabia; and the fluency of his speech was cor¬ 
rected and enhanced by the practice of discreet 
and seasonable silence. With these powers of 
eloquence, Mahomet was an illiterate barbarian; 
his youth had never been instructed in the arts 
of reading and writing: the common ignorance 
exempted him from shame or reproach, but he 
was reduced to a narrow circle of existence, and 
deprived of those faithful mirrors which reflect to 
our minds the minds of sages and heroes. Yet 
the book of nature and of man was open to his 
view; and some fancy has been indulged in the 
political and philosophical observations which are 
ascribed to the Arabian traveler. He compares 
the nations and religions of the earth; discovers 
the weakness of the Persian and Roman mon¬ 
archies; beholds with pity and indignation the 


degeneracy of the times; and resolves to unite, 
under one God and one king, the invincible spirit 
and primitive virtues of the Arabs. Our more 
accurate inquiry will suggest that, instead of visit¬ 
ing the courts, the camps, the temples of the 
east, the two journeys of Mahomet into Syria 
were confined to the fairs of Bostra and Damas¬ 
cus; that he was only thirteen years of age when 
he accompanied the caravan of his uncle, and that 
his duty compelled him to return as soon as he 
had disposed of the merchandise of Cadijah. In 
these hasty and superficial excursions, the eye of 
genius might discern some objects invisible to his 
grosser companions; some seeds of knowledge 
might be cast upon a fruitful soil; but his igno¬ 
rance of the Syriac language must have checked 
his curiosity, and I can not perceive in the life or 
writings of Mahomet that his prospect was far 
extended beyond the limits of the Arabian 
world. 






THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 

THE MOST VERSATILE WRITER OF THE CENTURY. 

NE of the most delightful books in the world is “The Life and 
Letters of Lord Macaulay,” by his nephew, George O. Trevelyan, 
It is delightful because Macaulay was one of the most wonderful 
characters that ever lived. As a child he exhibited the most phe¬ 
nomenal ability, reading with the utmost avidity books far beyond 
the capacity of any ordinary boy, acquiring languages with the 
greatest ease, and, while his manner exhibited some oddities, due 
to his familiarity with “grown-up” forms of expression, retaining, nevertheless, his 
boyish interest in play and all the child-life in the large family of which he was a 
member. When four or five years old he was at tea, with others of his family, 
at the house of a friend, when an awkward maid spilled hot coffee over his legs. 
His compassionate hostess presently inquired if he were better, and he replied, 
with perfect simplicity, “Thank you, madam, the agony is abated.” 

Macaulay was the son of a West India merchant who was associated with 
Wilberforce and others in the battle against slavery. He was born at Rothley, in 
Leicestershire, in 1800. He won distinction at Cambridge, and, after studying 
law, was called to the bar in 1826, but never did more than enter upon legal prac¬ 
tice. He had already begun to contribute to the magazines, articles both in prose 
and verse having appeared in Knight's Quarterly Magazine. Macaulay began 
his contributions to the Edinburgh Reviezv in 1825, and continued to write for it 
for nearly twenty years. These essays were collected and edited by himself, 
and published in three volumes, which contain much of the finest prose in the 
language. 

He wrote a number of articles for the Encyclopaedia Brittanica, notable among 
which were those upon Bunyan, Goldsmith, Johnson, and Pitt. He entered political 
life in 1830, when he was elected to Parliament, and took at once an important 
part in public affairs. His father having become financially embarrassed, Macaulay 
was from this time burdened with the care of his brother and sisters. He was for¬ 
tunate in obtaining government posts, and in 1834 was sent to India as a member 
of the Supreme Council, his special charge being to draw up a new Penal Code for 
India. This work occupied him four years, and from it he returned to England with 
a fair competence. He was Secretary of War in 1839, and in 1845 was made Pay¬ 
master-General. He had, however, incurred great hostility by his favorable treat- 

t 6 241 

















242 


THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 


ment of the Roman Catholics, and in 1847 he failed to be re-elected to Parliament. 
He now devoted himself to his “History of England from the Accession of James II,” 
at which he labored until his death. He completed four volumes, bringing the 
story down to the death of Queen Mary in 1695, and had prepared notes for the 
fifth, which was afterward published in this incomplete form by his sister, Lady 
Trevelyan. He was again elected to Parliament, and was raised, to the peerage in 
1857 ; but he took no further part in public affairs. 

Macaulay’s poems, while they were formerly much read, and compare favor¬ 
ably with the work of many famous writers of verse, are so far outshone by his 
prose that they have dropped out of public attention. No other book of the century 
was received with enthusiasm equal to that which greeted the “ History.” Within a 
generation after its appearance more than a hundred and forty thousand copies 
of the “ History” have been sold in the United Kingdom alone. No history ever 
had such a sale in America, and it was translated into almost every European 
language. The author received a hundred thousand dollars as part of his returns 
for a single year, and certainly it went far to deserve its reception. 

It is what a history ought to be,—a history of the people. It is written in a 
style of great clearness, force, and eloquence ; and the scenes he describes he 
places, by the vividness of his portrayal, directly before your eyes. You see them 
and feel them too. The third chapter of this great work, wherein he describes 
the advance of the people, for the last three centuries, from ignorance to knowl¬ 
edge, from barbarism to civilization, from serfdom to freedom, should be read by 
all,—especially by those elderly gentlemen whose chief delight is to praise the 
“good old times.” 

With all its great merits it has its imperfections, of course, as its author was 
subject to like passions and infirmities with other men. He has been accused of 
partiality and exaggeration, and of gratifying his passion for epigram at the expense 
of truth : and it must be acknowledged that his views are sometimes biased (and 
whose are not ?) by personal antipathies: such as his description of Scotland; his 
account of the massacre of Glencoe ; his delineation of the character of the Eng¬ 
lish Puritans and the Scotch Covenanters ; and especially his portraiture of William 
Penn. 

It must always be a matter of supreme regret that to Macaulay’s masterly 
power of making the scenes of the past spring again into life before the mind of 
the reader, he did not join that respect for the truth of history that would have 
cleared him from the accusation that he preferred to sacrifice the facts of the case 
with which he had to deal rather than to mar the beauty of a rounded period. 

In the “Essays” all his excellences appear, while his failures as a historian 
can not frequently mar his work. His reviews of Hallam’s “ Constitutional His¬ 
tory.” and of the memoirs of Lord Clive, Warren Hastings, Sir Robert Walpole, 
Sir William Temple, Sir Walter Raleigh, etc., contain a series of brilliant and copi¬ 
ous historical retrospects unequaled in our literature. His eloquent papers on 
Lord Bacon, Sir Thomas Browne, Horace Walpole’s Letters, Boswell’s Johnson, 
Addison’s Memoirs, and other philosophical and literary subjects, are also of first- 
rate excellence. Whatever topic he takes up he fairly exhausts : nothing is left to 
the imagination, and the most ample curiosity is gratified. 


THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 


243 


For many years he held a social position which has been enjoyed by very few 
Englishmen. One can not wonder that he grew to be something of an autocrat; 
not, perhaps, alter the order of Samuel Johnson, but something like it neverthe¬ 
less. His positive way of expressing his views is well indicated in the remark of a 
great contemporary : “ I wish I could be as sure of anything as Tom Macaulay is 
of everything.” 

He delighted in liberal giving, and used the great income, which was the fruit 
of his own genius, in helping everyone who had the shadow of a claim upon him. 
He was particularly munificent in bestowing pecuniary aid upon any needy author, 
and if he was sometimes imposed upon he was rather amused than chagrined. 

In 1859 the great man was laid to rest in the poets’ corner in Westminster 
Abbey. The affection of his family and friends amounted almost to idolatry, and 
lew even of the famous men whose earthly remains keep company with his have 
better deserved a lasting renown. 




►IE--- 


FALLACIOUS DISTRUST OF LIBERTY. 
From the “ Essay on Milton.” 


ry^lRIOSTO tells a pretty story of a fairy, who, 
by some mysterious law of her nature, was 
condemned to appear at certain seasons 
in the form of a foul and poisonous snake. Those 
who injured her during the period of her disguise 
were forever excluded from participation in the 
blessings which she bestowed. But to those who, 
in spite of her loathsome aspect, pitied and pro¬ 
tected her, she afterward revealed herself in the 
beautiful and celestial form which was natural to 
her, accompanied their steps, granted all their 
wishes, filled their houses with wealth, made them 
happy in love and victorious in war. Such a 
spirit is Liberty. At times she takes the form of a 
hateful reptile. She growls, she hisses, she stings. 
But woe to those who in disgust shall venture to 
crush her! And happy are those who, having 
dared to receive her in her degraded and frightful 
shape, shall at length be rewarded by her in the 
time of her beauty and her glory. 

There is only one cure for the evils which newly- 
acquired freedom produces—and that cure is free¬ 


dom ! When a prisoner leaves his cell, he can 
not bear the light of day; he is unable to discrim¬ 
inate colors or to recognize faces. But the 
remedy is not to remand him into his dungeon, 
but to accustom him to the rays of the sun. The 
blaze of truth and liberty may at first dazzle and 
bewilder nations which have become half blind in 
the house of bondage. But let them gaze on, and 
they will soon be able to bear it. In a few years 
men learn to reason. The extreme violence of 
opinion subsides. Hostile theories correct each 
other. The scattered elements of truth cease to con¬ 
flict, and begin to coalesce. And at length a system 
of justice and order is educed out of the chaos. 

Many politicians of our time are in the habit of 
laying it down as a self-evident proposition that no 
people ought to be free till they are fit to use their 
freedom. The maxim is worthy of the fool in the 
old story, who resolved not to go into the water 
until he had learned to swim ! If men are to wait 
for liberty till they become wise and good in 
slavery, they mav indeed wait forever. 








244 


THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 


JOHN HAMPDEN. 


From the Edinburgh Revinv . 


E had indeed left none his like behind him. 
There still remained, indeed, in his party 
many acute intellects, many eloquent 
tongues, many brave and honest hearts. There 
still remained a rugged and clownish soldier, half 
fanatic, half buffoon, whose talents, discerned as 
yet by only one penetrating eye, were equal to all 
the highest duties of the soldier and the prince. 
But in Hampden, and in Hampden alone, were 
united all the qualities which at such a crisis 
were necessary to save the State—the valor and 
energy of Cromwell, the discernment and elo¬ 
quence of Vane, the human moderation of Man¬ 
chester, the stern integrity of Hale, the ardent 
public spirit of Sydney. 

Others might possess all the qualities which 
were necessary to save the popular party in the 
crisis of danger; Hampden alone had both the 



power and the inclination to restrain its excesses 
in the hour of triumph. Others could conquer; 
he alone could reconcile. A heart as bold as his 
brought up the cuirassiers who turned the tide of 
battle on Marston Moor. As skilful an eye as 
his watched the Scotch army descending from the 
heights over Dunbar. But it was when to the 
sullen tyranny of Laud and Charles had succeeded 
the fierce conflict of sects and factions, ambitious 
of ascendancy and burning for revenge; it was 
when the vices and ignorance which the old tyr¬ 
anny had generated threatened the new freedom 
with destruction, that England missed the so¬ 
briety, the self-command, the perfect soundness 
of judgment, the perfect rectitude of intention, 
to which the history of revolution furnishes no 
parallel, or furnishes a parallel in Washington 
alone. 


-- 


THE PURITANS. 


L would first speak of the Puritans, the most 
I remarkable body of men, perhaps, which 
the world has ever produced. 

Those who roused the i)eople to resistance— 
who directed their measures through a long series 
of eventful years ; who formed, out of the most 
unpromising materials, the finest army that Europe 
had even seen ; who trampled down king, church, 
and aristocracy; who, in the short intervals of 
domestic sedition and rebellion, made the name 
of England terrible to every nation on the face of 
the earth—were no vulgar fanatics. Most of their 
absurdities were mere external badges, like the 
signs of freemasonry or the dresses of friars. We 
regret that these badges were not more attractive; 
we regret that a body, to whose courage and 
talents mankind has owed inestimable obligations, 
had not the lofty elegance which distinguished 
some of the adherents of Charles I, or the easy 
good-breeding for which the court of Charles II 
was celebrated. But, if we must make our choice, 
we shall, like Bassanio in the play, turn from the 
specious caskets which contain only the Death’s 


head and the Fool’s head, and fix our choice on 
the plain leaden chest which conceals the treasure. 

The Puritans were men whose minds had de¬ 
rived a peculiar character from the daily contem¬ 
plation of superior beings and eternal interests. 
Not content with acknowledging, in general 
terms, an overruling Providence, they habitually 
ascribed every event to the will of the Great 
Being, for whose power nothing was too vast, for 
whose inspection nothing was too minute. To 
know him, to serve him, to enjoy him, was with 
them the great end of existence. They rejected 
with contempt the ceremonious homage which 
other sects substituted for the pure worship of the 
soul. Instead of catching occasional glimpses of 
the Deity through an obscuring veil, they aspired 
to gaze full on the intolerable brightness, and to 
commune with him face to face. Hence origi¬ 
nated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. 
The difference between the greatest and meanest 
of mankind seemed to vanish when compared 
with the boundless interval which separated the 
whole race from Him on whom their own eyes 











THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 


245 


were constantly fixed. They recognized no title 
to superiority but His favor; and, confident of 
that favor, they despised all the accomplishments 
and all the dignities of the world. If they were 
unacquainted with the works of philosophers and 
poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of 
God; if their names were not found in the 
registers of heralds, they felt assured that they 
were recorded in the Book of Life ; if their steps 
were not accompanied by a splendid train of 
menials, legions of ministering angels had charge 
over them. Their palaces were houses not made 
with hands; their diadems, crowns of glory which 
should never fade away. On the rich and the 
eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down 
with contempt; for they esteemed themselves 
rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in 
a more sublime language,—nobles by the right of 
an earlier creation, and priests by the imposition 
of a mightier hand. The very meanest of them 


was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible 
importance belonged,—on whose slightest ac¬ 
tions the spirits of light and darkness looked with 
anxious interest,—who had been destined, before 
heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity 
which should continue when heaven and earth 
should have passed away. Events which short¬ 
sighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes had 
been ordained on his account. For his sake em¬ 
pires had risen and flourished and decayed ; for 
his sake the Almighty had proclaimed his will by 
the pen of the evangelist and the harp of the 
prophet. He had been rescued by no common 
deliverer from the grasp of no common foe ; he 
had been ransomed by the sweat of no vulgar 
agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It 
was for him that the sun had been darkened, that 
the rocks had been rent, that the dead had arisen, 
that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of 
her expiring God ! 


• o^o. - 


BUNYAa\’S PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. 


iHE characteristic peculiarity of the “ Pil- 
I grim’s Progress” is, that it is the only 
work of its kind which possesses a strong 
human interest. Other allegories only amuse the 
fancy. The allegory of Bunyan has been read by 
many thousands with tears. There are some good 
allegories in Johnson’s works, and some of still 
higher merit by Addison. In these performances 
there is, perhaps, as much wit and ingenuity as 
in the “Pilgrim’s Progress.” But the pleasure 
which is produced by the Vision of Mirza, or 
the Vision of Theodore, the genealogy of Wit, 
or the contest between Rest and Labor, is ex¬ 
actly similar to the pleasure which we derive 
from one of Cowley’s odes, or from a canto of 
“ Hudibras.” It is a pleasure which belongs wholly 
to the understanding, and in which the feelings 
have no part whatever. Nay, even Spenser him¬ 
self, though assuredly one of the greatest poets 
that ever lived, could not succeed in the attempt 
to make allegory interesting. It was in vain that 
he lavished the riches of his mind on the House 
of Pride and the House of Temperance. One 
unpardonable fault—the fault of tediousness— 


pervades the whole of the “ Faerie Queen.” We 
become sick of Cardinal Virtues and Deadly 
Sins, and long for the society of plain men and 
women. Of the persons who read the first canto, 
not one in ten reaches the end of the first book, 
and not one in a hundred perseveres to the end of 
the poem. Very few and very weary are those 
who are in at the death of the Blatant Beast. If 
the last six books, which are said to have been 
destroyed in Ireland, had been preserved, we 
doubt whether any heart less stout than that of a 
commentator would have held out to the end. 

It is not so with the “ Pilgrim’s Progress." 
That wonderful book, while it obtains admiration 
from the most fastidious critics, is loved by those 
who are too simple to admire it. Doctor Johnson 
—all whose studies were desultory, and who hated, 
as he said, to read books through—made an ex¬ 
ception in favor of the “Pilgrim’s Progress.” That 
work, he said, was one of the two or three works 
which he wished longer. It was by no common 
merit that the'illiterate sectary extracted prai.se 
like this from the most pedantic of critics and the 
most bigoted of tories. In the wildest ]iarts of 









246 


THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 


Scotland the “ Pilgrim’s .Progress ” is the delight 
of the peasantry. In every nursery the “ Pil¬ 
grim’s Progress” is a greater favorite than “ Jack 
the Giant Killer.” Every reader knows the 
straight and narrow path as well as he knows a road 
in which he has gone backward and forward a hun- j 
dred times. This is the highest miracle of genius, 
—that things which are not should be as though 
they were; that the imaginations of one mind 
should become the personal recollections of an¬ 
other. And this miracle the tinker has wrought. 
There is no ascent, no declivity, no resting-place, 
no turnstile, with which we are not perfectly ac¬ 
quainted. The wicket-gate and the desolate 
swamp which separates it from the City of De¬ 
struction ; the long line of road, as straight as a 
rule can make it; the Interpreter’s house and all 
its fair shows; the prisoner in the iron cage; the 
palace, at the doors of which armed men kept 
guard, and on the battlements of which walked 
persons clothed all in gold ; the cross and the 
sepulcher ; the steep hill and the pleasant arbor ; 
the stately front of the House Beautiful by the 
wayside; the low green Valley of Humiliation, 
rich with grass and covered with flocks,—are all 
as well known to us as the sights of our own 
street. Then we come to the narrow place where 
Apollyon strode right across the whole breadth of 
the way, to stop the journey of Christian, and 
where, afterward, the pillar was set up to testify 
how bravely the pilgrim had fought the good 
fight. As we advance, the valley becomes deeper 
and deeper. The shade of the precipices on both 
sides falls blacker and blacker. The clouds gather 
overhead. Doleful voices, the clanking of chains, 
and the rushing of many feet to and fro, are 
heard through the darkness. The way, hardly 
discernible in gloom, runs close by the mouth of 
the burning pit, which sends forth its flames, its 
noisome smoke, and its hideous shapes, to terrify 
the adventurer. Thence he goes on, amidst the 


snares and pitfalls, with the mangled bodies of 
those who have perished lying in the ditch by his 
side. At the end of the long dark valley, he 
passes the dens in which the old giants dwelt, 
amidst the bones and ashes of those whom they 
had slain. . . . _ 

The style of Bunyan is delightful to every 
reader, and invaluable as a study to every person 
who wishes to obtain a wide command over the 
English language. The vocabulary is the vocabu¬ 
lary of the common people. There is not an ex¬ 
pression, if we except a few technical terms of 
theology, which would puzzle the rudest peasant. 
We have observed several pages which do not con¬ 
tain a single word of more than two syllables. 
Yet no writer has said more exactly what he meant 
to say. For magnificence, for pathos, for vehe¬ 
ment exhortation, for subtle disquisition, for every 
i purpose of the poet, the orator, and the divine, 

I this homely dialect, the dialect of plain working- 
I men, was perfectly sufficient. There is no book 
I in our literature on which we could so readily 
j stake the fame of the old unpolluted English lan- 
I guage; no book which shows so well how rich that 
j language is in its own proper wealth, and how 
little it has been improved by all that it has bor¬ 
rowed. 

Cowper said, forty or fifty years ago, that he 
dared not name John Bunyan in his verse, for fear 
of moving a sneer. To our refined forefathers, 
we suppose Lord Roscommon’s “ Essay on Trans¬ 
lated Verse,” and the Duke of Buckinghamshire’s 
I “ Essay on Poetry,” appeared to be compositions 
infinitely superior to the allegory of the preaching 
! tinker. We live in better times; and we are not 
: afraid to say that, though there were many clever 
! men in England during the latter half of the 
I seventeenth century, there were only two great 
: creative minds. One of those minds produced 
the “ Paradise Lost ” ; the other, the “ Pilgrim’s 
Progress. ’ ’ 







JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE. 


HISTORIAN AND ESSAYIST. 



R. FROUDE is perhaps the most popular of the modern school of 
English historians which bases its work upon the careful study of 
original historical documents, and endeavors thus to frame an 
accurate conception of the scenes and personages which form its 
subject-matter. 

Mr. Froude was the son of a clergyman and, after graduating 
at Oxford, was ordained a deacon. His earliest publications, how¬ 
ever, showed that he had lost his hold upon the commonly received orthodoxy, and, 
although he did not for some years lay down his office of deacon, this change 
of view lost him his fellowship at Exeter and also an appointment he had received 
as teacher in Tasmania. He now settled himself to literature as a profession, and 
in the interval between 1856 and 1870 appeared his greatest work—“The History 
of England from the Fall of Wolsey to the Defeat of the Spanish Armada.” 
Some of his other principal works are “ The English in Ireland in the Eighteenth 
Century”; “The Life of Carlyle”; “Short Studies of Great Subjects”; “The 
Divorce of Catharine of Aragon ” ; “ English Seamen of the Sixteenth Century” ; 
“The Life and Letters of Erasmus,” and “The Council of Trent.” He wrote 
several novels, but in them the essayist so predominated over the story-teller that 
they have not achieved any great success. He died in 1894. 

The most striking characteristic of his works is their elegance of diction, together 
with their historical accuracy and vividness in portraying men and events. There 
has been great controversy between Mr. Froude and other historians as to his 
faithfulness to historic truths, but it seems to be the conclusion that the omissions 
with which he has been charged are not made for the suppression of facts, but 
because Froude believed that by means of broader characteristics and without 
going further into details he had conveyed the truth. He has also been frequently 
criticized for the publication of “Carlyle’s Letters” with a fullness which included 
many expressions of the great philosopher which wounded living persons and 
really gave an exaggerated idea of the bitterness of Carlyle’s judgment of man. 
There can be no question, however, as to Froude’s power as an historian, and it 
may be said that his final vindication was his appointment as Professor of History 
at Oxford to succeed Freeman, who had been one of his severest critics. 

247 


















248 


JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE. 


EXECUTION OF MARY. 
From “The History of England.’’ 


rgwiRIEFLY, solemnly, and sternly, the Com- 
missioners delivered their awful message. 
They informed her that they had received 
a commission under the great seal to see her exe¬ 
cuted, and she was told that she must prepare to 
suffer on the following morning. She was dread¬ 
fully agitated. For a moment she refused to be¬ 
lieve them. Then, as the truth forced itself upon 
her, tossing her head in disdain, and struggling to 
control herself, she called her physician, and 
began to speak to him of money that was owed 
to her in France. At last it seems that she broke 
down altogether, and they left her with a fear 
either that she would destroy herself in the night, 
or that she would refuse to come to the scaffold, 
and that it might be necessary to draw her there 
by violence. 

The end had come. She had long professed to 
expect it, but the clearest expectation is not cer¬ 
tainty. The scene for which she had affected to 
prepare she was to encounter in its dread reality, 
and all her busy schemes, her dreams of vengeance, 
her visions of a revolution, with herself ascending 
out of the convulsion and seating herself on her 
rival’s throne—all were gone. She had played 
deep, and the dice had gone against her. 

At eight in the morning the provost-marshall 
knocked at the outer door which communicate'd 
with her suite of apartments. It was locked, and 
no one answered, and he went back in some 
trepidation lest the fears might prove true which 
had been entertained the preceding evening. On 
his return with the sheriff, however, a few minutes 
later, the door was open, and they were confronted 
with the tall, majestic figure of Mary Stuart stand¬ 
ing before them in splendor. The plain gray 
dress had been exchanged for a robe of black 
satin; her jacket was of black satin also, looped 
and slashed and trimmed with velvet. Her false 
hair was arranged studiously with a coif, and over 
her head and falling down over her back was a 
white veil of delicate lawn. A crucifix of gold 
hung from her neck. In her hand she held a 
crucifix of ivory, and a number of jewelled pater¬ 
nosters was attached to her girdle. Led by two 


of Paulet’s gentlemen, the sheriff walking before 
her, she passed to the chamber of presence in 
which she had been tried, where Shrewsbury, 
Kent, Paulet, Drury, and others were waiting to 
receive her. Andrew Melville, Sir Robert’s 
brother, who had been master of her household, 
was kneeling in tears. “Melville,” she said, 
“you should rather rejoice than weep that the 
end of my troubles is come. Tell my friends I 
die a true Catholic. Commend me to my son. 
Tell him I have done nothing to prejudice his 
kingdom of Scotland, and so, good Melville, 
farewell.” She kissed him, and turning, a.sked 
for her chaplain Du Preau. He was not present. 
There had been a fear of some religious melo¬ 
drama which it was thought well to avoid. Her 
ladies, who had attempted to follow her, had been 
kept back also. She could not afford to leave the 
account of her death to be reported by enemies 
and Puritans, and she required assistance for the 
scene which she meditated. Missing them, she 
asked the reason of their alxsence, and said she 
wished them to see her die. Kent said he feared 
they might scream or faint, or attempt perhaps 
to dip their handkerchiefs in her blood. She 
undertook that they should be quiet and obedient. 
“The queen,” she said, “would never deny her 
so slight a request”; and when Kent still hesi¬ 
tated, she added, with tears, “You know I am 
cousin to your Queen, of the blood of Henry the 
Seventh, a married Queen of France, and anointed 
Queen of Scotland.” 

It was impossible to refuse. She was allowed 
to take six of her own people with her, and select 
them herself. She chose her physician Burgoyne, 
Andrew Melville, the apothecary Gorion, and her 
surgeon, with two ladies, Elizabeth Kennedy and ' 
Curie’s young wife, Barbara Mowbray, whose child 
she had baptized. “ A Hons done," she then said, 
“let us go”; and passing out attended by the 
earls, and leaning on the arm of an officer of the 
guard, she descended the great staircase to the 
hall. The news had spread far through the coun¬ 
try. Thousands of people were collected outside 
the walls. About three hundred knights and gen- 






JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE. 


249 


tlemen of the country had been admitted to wit¬ 
ness the execution. The tables and forms had 
been removed, and a great wood fire was blazing 
in the chimney. At the upper end of the hall, 
above the fireplace, but near it, stood the scaffold, 
twelve feet square, and two feet and a half high. 
It was covered with black cloth ; a low rail ran 
round it covered with black cloth also, and the 
sheriff’s guard of halberdiers were ranged on the 
floor below, on the four sides,' to keep off the 
crowd. On the scaffold was the block, black like 
the rest; a square black cushion was placed be¬ 
hind it, and,behind the cushion a black chair; on 
the right were two other chairs for the earls. The 
axe leant against the rail, and two masked figures 
stood like mutes on either side at the back. The 
Queen of Scots, as she swept in, seemed as if com¬ 
ing to take a part in some solemn pageant. Not 
a muscle of her face could be seen to quiver; she 
ascended the scaffold with absolute composure, 
looked round her smiling, and sat down. Shrews¬ 
bury and Kent followed, and took their places, 
the sheriff stood at her left hand, and Beale 
then mounted a platform, and read the warrant 
aloud. 

She laid her crucifix on her chair. The chief 
executioner took it as a perquisite, but was ordered 
instantly to lay it down. The lawn veil was lifted 
carefully off, not to disturb the hair, and was hung 
upon the rail. The black robe was next removed. 
Below it was a petticoat of crimson velvet. The 
black jacket followed, and under the jacket was a 
body of crimson satin. One of her ladies handed 
her a pair of crimson sleeves, with which she hast¬ 
ily covered her arms: and thus she stood on the 
black scaffold with the black figures all around 
her, blood-red from head to foot. Her reasons 
for adopting so extraordinary a costume must be 
left to conjecture. It is only certain that it must 
have been carefully studied, and that the pictorial 
effect must have been appalling. 

The women, whose firmness had hitherto borne 
the trial, began now to give way; spasmodic sobs 
bursting from them which they could not check. 

“ JVe criez vous," she said, ''fay promis pour \ 


vous." Struggling bravely, they crossed their 
breasts again and again, she crossing them in turn, 
and bidding them pray for her. Then she knelt 
on the cushion. Barbara Mowbray bound her 
eyes with her handkerchief. "Adieu,” she said, 
smiling for the last time, and waving her hand to 
them; "adieu, au revoir.” They stepped back 
from off the scaffold, and left her alone. On her 
knees she repeated the psalm, “ In te, Domine, con- 
fido,” “In thee, O Lord, have I put my trust.” 
Her shoulders being exposed, two scars became 
visible, one on cither side, and the earls being 
now a little behind her, Kent pointed to them 
with his white wand, and looked inquiringly at 
his companion. Shrewsbury whispered that they 
were the remains of two abscesses from which she 
had suffered while living with him at Sheffield. 

When the psalm was finished she felt for the 
block, and laying down her head, muttered r 
‘ ‘ In manus, Domine, tuas, commendo animam 
meam.” The hard wood seemed to hurt her, for 
she placed her hands under her neck. The exe¬ 
cutioners gently removed them, lest they should 
deaden the blow, and then one of them holding 
her slightly, the other raised the axe and struck. 
The scene had been too trying even for the prac¬ 
tised headsman of the tower. His aim wandered. 
The blow fell on the knot of the handkerchief, 
and scarcely broke the skin. She neither spoke 
noj moved. He struck again, this time effec¬ 
tively. The head hung by a shred of skin, which 
he divided without withdrawing the axe; and at 
once a metamorphosis was witnessed, strange as 
was ever wrought by wand of fabled enchanter. 
The coif fell off and the false plaits. The labored 
illusion vanished. The lady who had knelt before 
the block was in the maturity of grace and loveli¬ 
ness. The executioner, when he raised the head, 
as usual, to show to the crowd, exposed the with¬ 
ered features of a grizzled, wrinkled old woman. 

“ So perish all enemies of the Queen,” said the 
Dean of Peterborough. A loud amen rose over 
the hall. “Such end,” said the Earl of Kent, 
rising and standing over the body, “ to the 
Queen’s and the Gospel’s enemies.” 




FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 

THE MOST FEMININE WRITER OF THE AGE. 

WO generations of English-speaking women found in the poetry of 
Mrs. Hemans the harmonious expression of their own emotions 
and sentiments. Her poems have for some years been less read, 
but many of them are known by heart by multitudes of people 
who learned them from the school readers in their youth. 

Felicia Dorothea Browne was born in Liverpool, in 1793. but 
passed her childhood and youth in Whales. She was early noted for 
her “ extreme beauty and precocious talents,” and at the age of fourteen published 
her first poems. At eighteen she made an unhappy marriage with Captain Hemans, 
of the British army, who went abroad six years later, leaving to her the care of their 
five sons. Mrs. Hemans took up her residence in Rhyllon, Wales, where most of 
her literary work was done. In 1829 she visited Sir Walter Scott, whose admira¬ 
tion for her did not extend to her poetry. He thought her verses bore “too many 
flowers and too little fruit,” while the great critic, Jeffrey, thought her “beyond all 
comparison the most touching and accomplished writer of occasional verses that 
our literature has yet to boast of.” Wordsworth also admired her greatly, saying 
that “in quickness of mind she had, within the range of his acquaintance, no equal.” 
Before her death, in 1835, she had published eighteen separate volumes. Her last 
years were spent in Dublin, at the house of her brother, where she was the center 
of a brilliant circle of literary people. 



_ , ■ 

THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 


HIED, amid the flowers at play. 

While the red light fades away; 
Mother, with thine earnest eye, 
Ever following silently ; 

Father, by the breeze of eve 
Call’d thy harvest work to leave; 
Pray, ere yet the dark hours be,— 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 

Traveler, in the stranger’s land. 

Far from thine own household band] 
Mourner, haunted by the tone 
Of a voice from this world gone ; 


Captive, in whose narrow cell 
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell; 
Sailor, on the darkening sea,— 
Lift the heart and bend the knee! 

Warrior, that from battle won, 
Breathest now at set of sun ; 
Woman, o’er the lowly slain 
Weeping on his burial-plain ; 

Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 
Kindred by one holy tie, 

Heaven’s first star alike ye see,— 
Lift the heart and bend the knee I 


250 






























BROWNING 


GeOtJGt ELLIOT. 




" ^HANr 


H NOTED 
^ENGLISH 
^-7 WOMEN 


fLITERATURE 


waird: 












I 


< 










FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 


251 


THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 



HAT hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and 
cells, 

Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious 
Main ?— 


Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colored shells, 
Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in 
vain.— 


Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy Sea! 
We ask not such from thee. 


Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have 
more! 

High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast! 
They hear not now the booming waters roar. 

The battle-thunders will not break their rest;— 
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy 
grave— 

Give back the true and brave! 


Yet more, the Depths have more! What wealth 
untold 

Far down, and shining through their stillness, 
lies? 

Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold. 

Won from ten thousand royal Argosies.— 

Sweep o’er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful 
Main ! 

Earth claims not these again ! 

Yet more, the Depths have more ! Thy waves 
have rolled 

Above the cities of a world gone by ! 

Sand hath filled up the palaces of old. 

Seaweed o’ergrown the halls of revelry ! 

Dash o’er them. Ocean ! in thy scornful play— 
Man yields them to decay ! 


Give back the lost and lovely! those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so long. 
The prayer went up through midnight’s breathless 
gloom. 

And the vain yearning woke ’midst festal song ! 
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o’er- 
thrown,— 

But all is not thine own ! 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down. 

Dark flow thy tides o’er manhood’s noble head. 
O’er youth’s bright locks and beauty’s flowery 
crown :—• 

Yet must thou hear a voice—Restore the Dead ! 
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from 
thee— 

Restore the Dead, thou Sea! 


-. 0 ^ 0 *- 


THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 


HE breaking waves dashed high 

On a stern and rock-bound coast. 
And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed ; 

And the heavy night hung dark 
The hills and waters o’er. 

When a band of exiles moored their bark 
On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes. 

They the' true-hearted came ; 

Not with the roll of stirring drums 
And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come. 

In silence and in fear:— 

They shook the depths of the desert gloom 
With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amid the storm they sang. 

Till the stars heard and the sea ; 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
To the anthem of the free : 


The ocean-eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave’s foam, 

And the rocking pines of the forest roared ; 

Such was their welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 
Amid that Pilgrim band ;— 

Why had they come to wither there. 

Away from their childhood’s land? 

There was woman’s fearless eye. 

Lit by her deep love’s truth ; 

There was manhood’s brow serenely high. 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ?— 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?— 

They sought a faith’s pure shrine ! 

Yes ; call that holy ground. 

The soil where first they trod. 

They have left unstained what there they found, 
Freedom to worship God. 
















ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

MOST MELODIOUS OF POETS AMONG WOMEN. 



HIRTY years ago the poems of Mrs, Browning were everywhere 
read. The sweetness and beauty of her verse, the wide range 
as well as the accuracy and completeness of her mental grasp, 
her devotion to the cause of civil freedom and moral elevation, 
made her one of the most popular poets of the time. Elizabeth 
Barrett was born in Durham, England, in 1809, and passed her 
childhood in her father’s country house in Herefordshire, She 
was very remarkable for the precocity of her mind. It is said that she could read 
Greek at eight years, and at seventeen she translated the “ Prometheus ” of Hischy- 
lus, and published an “Essay on the Mind.” In her day little English girls did not 
receive the broad and somewhat free education given to their brothers, but Eliza¬ 
beth. Barrett was exempted from the restrictions of her sex and given the educa¬ 
tion of a boy. Her friend. Miss Mitford, has thus described her: 

“ She certainly was one of the most interesting persons I had ever seen. 
Everybody who then saw her said the same, so that it is not merely the impression 
of my partiality or my enthusiasm. Of a slight, delicate figure, with a shower of 
dark curls falling on either side of a most expressive face, large tender eyes richly 
fringed by dark eyelashes, a smile like a sunbeam, and such a look of youthfulness 
that I had some difficulty in persuading a friend, in whose carriage we went 
together to Chiswick, that the translator of the ‘ Prometheus ’ of zEschylus, the 
authoress of the ‘ Essay on Mind,’ w^as old enough to be introduced into company 
—in technical language, was out.'' 

When she was twenty-eight she ruptured a blood-vessel in her lungs which 
did not heal, and which made her for nine years a confirmed invalid whose life was 
constantly despaired of by her friends. In the meantime, however, in her dark¬ 
ened room, she pursued her labors, at study and in composition, and published two 
small volumes of verse, and later a collection of all her poems which she thought 
worthy of preservation. This collection contained the following lines, which led to 
her meeting Robert Browning : 


Or at times a modern volume: W^ordsworth’s solemn idyll, 

Howitt’s ballad verse, or Tennyson’s enchanted reverie ; 

Or from Browning some “ Pomegranate,’’ which if cut deep down the middle. 
Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity. 

252 
























ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 


253 


Mr. Browning was a stranger to her, but called to offer thanks for the compli¬ 
ment contained in the last couplet, and by a mistake of the servant was shown into 
Miss Barrett’s room, to which only her most intimate friends were admitted. The 
acquaintance thus begun resulted in their marriage in 1846. The bride rose from 
her couch to be married, but her health improved, and during the remainder of 
her life continued reasonably good, although she was never strong. 

'I he Brownings resided, during almost their entire married life, at Florence. 
In 1839 Mrs. Browning published “Sonnets from the Portuguese,” which, contrary 
to the apparent meaning of the title, are original poems, and not translations. 
“ Casa Guidi Windows,” as the author says, “ contains the impressions of the writer 
upon events in Tuscany of which she was a witness. It is a simple story of per¬ 
sonal impressions, whose only value is in the intensity with which they were 
received, or in proving her warm affection for a beautiful and unfortunate country. 
The sincerity with which they are related indicates her own good faith and freedom 
from partisanship.” 

In 1856 appeared the longest of her poems, “Aurora Leigh,” which she 
characterized as “ the most mature of my works, and the one into which my highest 
convictions upon life and art have entered.” This novel in verse was, at least in 
part, written in England, whither the Brownings returned for a short time after a 
residence of eight years in Florence. Returning to Italy, Mrs. Browning put forth, 
in i860, a little volume originally entitled “Poems before Congress,” afterward 
published, with additions, under the title, “ Napoleon III in Italy, and other 
Poems.” She died in Pdorence in 1861. 

“Can’t you imagine,” said her husband, in comparing his work with hers, “a 
clever sort of angel, who plots, and plans, and tries to build up something he 
wants to make you see as he sees it, shows you one point of view, carries you off 
to another, hammering into your head the thing he wants you to understand; and 
whilst this bother is going on, God Almighty turns you off a little star,—that’s 
the difference between us. The true creative power is hers, not mine.” 




THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. 


[HERE is no God,” the foolish saith, 

I But none, “ There is no sorrow ” ; 
And nature oft the cry of faith 
In bitter need will borrow ; 

Eyes which the preacher could not school 
By wayside graves are raised ; 

And lips say, “God be pitiful,” 

Who ne’er said, “God be praised.” 

Be pitiful, O God ! 


We meet together at the feast— 

To private mirth betake us— 

We stare down in the winecup, lest 
Some vacant chair should shake us! 
We name delight, and pledge it round 
“ It shall be ours to-morrow ! ” 
God’s seraphs ! do your voices sound 
As sad in naming sorrow? 

Be pitiful, O God ! 









254 


ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 


We sit together, with the skies, 

The steadfast skies, above us; 

We look into each other’s eyes, 

“ And how long will you love us ? ” 
The eyes grow dim with prophecy. 

The voices, low and breathless— 
“Till death us part! ”—O words, to be 
Our best for love the deathless ! 

Be pitiful, dear God 1 


We pray together at the kirk. 
For mercy, mercy, solely— 
Hands weary with the evil work, 
We lift them to the Holy ! 


The corpse is calm below our knee— 

Its spirit bright before Thee— 

Between them, worse than either, we 
Without the rest of glory ! 

Be pitiful, O God 1 

And soon all vision waxeth dull— 

Men whisper, “ He is dying ” ; 

W^e cry no more, “ Be pitiful! ”— 

We have no strength for crying : 

No strength, no need ! Then, Soul of mine 
Look up and triumph rather— 

Lo I in the depth of God’s Divine, 

The Son adjures the Father— 

Be pitiful, O God I 


-. 0 ^ 0 .- 


THE SLEEP. 

“ He giveth His beloved sleep.”— Ps. cx.xvii, 2. 


F all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward into souls afar 

Along the Psalmist’s music deep. 
Now tell me if that any is. 

For gift or grace surpassing this— 

“ He giveth His beloved sleep.” 


What would we give to our beloved ? 

The hero’s heart to be unmoved. 

The poet’s star-tuned harp to sweep. 

The patriot’s voice to teach and rouse. 

The monarch’s crown to light the brows?— 
He giveth His beloved sleep. 


What do we give to our beloved ? 

A little faith all undisproved, 

A little dust to overweep. 

And bitter memories to make 
The whole earth blasted for our sake. 
He giveth His beloved sleep. 


“ Sleep soft, beloved ! ” Ave sometimes say. 
Who have no tune to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep; 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber when 
He giveth His belovM sleep. 


O earth, so full of dreary noises ! 

O men, with Availing in your voices ! 
O delved gold the Availers heap ! 


O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall ! 
God strikes a silence through you all. 
And giveth His beloved sleep. 


His dews drop mutely on the hill, 

His cloud above it saileth still. 

Though on its slope men sow and reap; 
More softly than the dew is shed, 

Or cloud is floated over head. 

He giveth His beloved sleep. 


Ay, men may AA'onder Avhile they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man 
Confirmed in such a rest to keep; 

But angels say,—and through the Avord 
I think their happy smile is heard ,— 

“ He giveth His beloved sleep.” 


For me, my heart that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show. 

That sees through tears the mummers leap 
Would now its Avearied vision close. 

Would child-like on His love repose. 

Who giveth His beloved sleep. 


And friends, dear friends, Avhen it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me. 

And round my bier ye come to Aveep, 
Let one most loving of you all 
Say, “ Not a tear must o’er her fall ! 

‘ He giveth His beloved sleep.’ ” 











GEORGE ELIOT. 

THE GREATEST NOVELIST OF THE ANALYTICAL SCHOOL. 


MONG the novelists since Dickens and Thackeray no one can com¬ 
pare with George Eliot in native force and vigor, in ability to read, 
through the indications of their outward lives and actions, the under¬ 
lying forces which form the character of men and women. Other 
writers have put before us the surface of life ; George Eliot depicts 
for her readers the very souls of her characters. It is this ability to 
go deep into the inner lives of men, to see, and so to picture, the 
real beings who move within this outer shell we call ourselves, which gave her so 
strong a hold upon the public and imparted to her books a quality peculiarly their 
own. 



Marian Evans was of Welsh descent, but she was born at South Farm, near 
Griff, in Warwickshire, England, in 1819. Her father, whose portrait she has 
drawn in the character of Adam Bede, was a land agent, but had started in life as 
a carpenter. He was a man of great ability, and was entrusted with the manage¬ 
ment of the estates of several large landowners in Warwickshire. His family, 
therefore, occupied a social position equal that of any of the professional people of 
the vicinity, and the circumstances of his life gave his gifted daughter the oppor¬ 
tunity of gaining that wonderfully intimate knowledge of widely different classes of 
people which is shown in her novels. Mrs. Evans died when Marian had arrived 
at the age of fifteen, and after the marriage of an elder sister the management of 
the household fell upon her. She had received a good education, and was proficient 
in French, German, and music. After her father retired from active work, in 1841, 
she studied Latin and Greek, and became absorbed in philosophy, particularly in 
its relation to religion. Her first literary work was the translation of Strauss’ 
“ Life of Jesus,” and was followed by similar work upon Feuerbach’s “ Essence of 
Christianity,” and Spinoza’s “ Ethics.” Mr. Evans dying in 1849, his daughter was 
induced to spend some months with her kind friends, the Brays and the family of 
the Artist D’Albert, abroad. Returning, she became sub-editor of the Westminster 
Review, and a member of the most brilliant literary circle of the time, numbering 
among her intimate friends Herbert Spencer, James and Harriet Martineau, and 
others of equal fame. 

Beside her work as sub-editor, she contributed to the Reviezv a number of the 
most remarkable essays that appeared in its pages. Among these were “ Carlyle’s 


255 


















256 


GEORGE ELIOT. 


Life of Sterling,” “Margaret Fuller,” “Women in France,” “Evangelical Teach¬ 
ing,” and “ VVorldliness and Otherworldliness.” 

She continued in. this work until 1854, when she assumed the duties of a wife 
to Mr. George Henry Lewes, and of a mother to his sons. In 1857 she published 
a volume of short stories entitled “Scenes from Clerical"Life,” over the name of 
George Eliot, which she attached to all her later works, and which, until it became 
famous as that of the leading novelist of the time, effectually concealed her 
identity. It was at once evident to all who were in the secret that she was a true 
novelist, and she henceforth put all her energies into the works which will remain 
as classical specimens of English fiction. Her fame grew with the appearance of 
“Adam Bede,” “The Mill on the Floss,” “Silas Maruer,” “Romola,” “Felix 
Holt,” and “ Middlemarch ” ; “ Daniel Deronda ” did not increase her reputation, 
but well maintained it; “The Impressions of Theophrastus Such” has, however, 
been less read. After the death of Mr. Lewes she was married to Mr. John W. 
Cross, who had for many years been a close and faithful friend, but before the end 
of the year, 1880, she died. Opinion will always be divided as to which is her 
best book and which her finest character, but the woman who has enriched our lit¬ 
erature with the high-souled carpenter, Adam Bede, and the pure unworldliness of 
Dinah Morris, who has brought us face to face with the doubts and fears, and, 
better, with the certainties, which filled the soul of Savonarola, may well be 
described as “an expression of the spirit of the age out of which she grew,” 
or the “ exponent of the thought of the third quarter of the nineteenth century.” 
As such she will take her place among the strongest characters and the ablest 
minds that have given of their best for the benefit of mankind. 



FLORENCE IN 1794. 
From “Romola.” 


N 1493 the rumor spread, and became louder 
and louder, that Charles the Eighth of 
France was about to cross the Alps with a 
mighty army; and the Italian populations, accus¬ 
tomed, since Italy had ceased to be the heart of the 
Roman Empire, to look for an arbitrator from afar, 
began vaguely to regard his coming as a means 
of avenging their wrongs and redressing their 
grievances. 

And in that rumor Savonarola had heard the 
assurance that his prophecy was being verified. 
What was it that filled the ears of the prophets of 
old but the distant tread of foreign armies, coming 
to do the work of justice? He no longer looked 
vaguely to the horizon for the coming storm: he 


pointed to the rising cloud. The French army 
was that new deluge which was to purify the earth 
from iniquity; the French king, Charles VIII, 
was the instrument elected by God, as Cyrus had 
been of old, and all men who desired good rather 
than evil were to rejoice in his coming. For the 
scourge would fall destructively on the impenitent 
alone. Let any city of Italy—let Florence above 
all—Florence, belov’ed of God, since in its ear 
the warning voice had been especially sent—repent 
and turn from its ways, like Nineveh of old, and 
the storm-cloud would roll over it and leave only 
refreshing rain-drops. 

Fra Girolamo’s word was powerful ; yet now 
that the new Cyrus had already been three months 









GEORGE ELIOT. 


257 


in Italy, and was not far from the gates of Florence, 
his presence was expected there with mixed feel¬ 
ings, in which fear and distrust certainly predom¬ 
inated. At present it was not understood that he 
had redressed any grievances; and the Florentines 
certainly had nothing to thank him for. He held 
their strong frontier fortresses, which Piero de’ 
INIedici had given up to him without securing any 
honorable terms in return ; he had done nothing to 
quell the alarming revolt of Pisa, which had been 
encouraged by his presence to throw off the Floren¬ 
tine yoke ; and “ orators,” even with a prophet at 
their head, could win no assurance from him, 
except that he would settle everything when he 
was once within the walls of Florence. Still, 
there was the satisfaction of knowing that the 
exasperating Piero de’ Medici had been fairly 
pelted out for the ignominious surrender of the 
fortresses, and in that act of energy the spirit 
of the Republic had recovered some of its old fire. 

The preparations for the equivocal guests were 
not those of a city resigned to submission. Behind 
the bright drapery and banners symbolic of joy, 
there were preparations of another sort made with 


common accord by the government and people. 
Well hidden within walls there were hired soldiers 
of the Republic, hastily called in from the sur¬ 
rounding districts; there were old arms duly fur¬ 
bished, and sharp tools and heavy cudgels laid 
carefully at hand, to be snatched up on short 
notice; there were excellent boards and stakes to 
form barricades upon occasion, and a good supply 
of stones to make a surprising hail from the upper 
windows. Above all, there were people very 
strongly in the humor of fighting any personage 
who might be supposed to have designs of hector¬ 
ing over them, they having lately tasted that new 
pleasure with much relish. This humor was not 
diminished by the sight of occasional parties of 
Frenchmen, coming beforehand to choose their 
quarters, with a hawk, perhaps, on their left wrist, 
and, metaphorically speaking, a piece of chalk in 
their right hand to mark Italian doors withal; 
especially as creditable historians imply that many 
sons of France were at that time characterized by 
something approaching to a swagger, which must 
have whetted the Florentine appetite for a little 
stone-throwing. 




A PASSAGE AT ARMS. 
From “Adam Bede.” 


ARTLE MASSEY returned from the fire¬ 
place, where he had been smoking his first 
pipe in quiet, and broke the silence by 
saying, as he thrust his forefinger into the canis¬ 
ter, “ Why, Adam, how happened you not to be 
at church on Sunday? answer me that, you rascal. 
The anthem went limping without you. Are you 
going to disgrace your schoolmaster in his old 
age?” 

“No, Mr. Massey,” said Adam. “Mr. and 
Mrs. Poyser can tell you where I was. I was in 
no bad company.” 

“ She’s gone, Adam, gone to Snowfield,” said 
IMr. Poyser, reminded of Dinah for the first time 
this evening. “I thought you’d ha’ persuaded 
her better. Nought ’ud hold her but she must go 
yesterday forenoon. The missis has hardly got 

17 



over it. I thought she’d ha’ no sperrit for th’ 
harvest supper.” 

Mrs. Poyser had thought of Dinah several times 
since Adam had come in, but she had had “no 
heart ” to mention the bad news. 

“ What ! ” said Bartle with an air of disgust. 
“ Was there a woman concerned ! Then I give 
you up, Adam.” 

“ But it’s a woman you’ve spoke well on. Bar- 
tie,” said Mr. Poyser. “ Come, now, you canna 
draw back ; you said once as women would n’t ha’ 
been a bad invention if they’d all been like 
Dinah.” 

“ I meant her voice, man—I meant her voice, 
that was all,” said Bartle. “lean bear to hear 
her speak without wanting to put wool in my ears. 
As for other things, I dare say she’s like the rest 








258 


GEORGE ELIOT. 


o’ the women—thinks two and two ’ll come to 
make five, if she cries and bothers enough about 
it.” 

“ Ay, ay ! ” said Mrs. Poy.ser, “ one ’ud think, 
an’ hear some folks talk, as the men war’ cute 
enough to count the corns in a bag o’ wheat wi’ 
only smelling at it. They can see through a barn 
door, they can. Perhaps that’s the reason they 
can see so little this side on’t.” 

Martin Poyser shook with delighted laughter, 
and winked at Adam as much as to say the school¬ 
master was in for it now. 

“Ah ! ” said Bartle, sneeringly, “ the women 
are quick enough, they’re quick enough. They 
know the rights of a story before they hear it, and 
can tell a man what his thoughts are before he 
knows ’em himself.” 

“Like enough,” said Mrs. Poyser, “for the 
men are mostly so slow, their thoughts overrun 
’em an’ they can only catch ’em by the tail. I 
can count a stocking-top while a man’s getting’s 
tongue ready ; an’ Avhen he outs wi’ his speech at 
last, there’s little broth to be made on’t. It’s 
your dead chicks takes the longest hatchin’. 
However, I’m not denyin’ the women are foolish ; 
God .\lmighty made ’em to match the men.” 

“Match!” said Bartle; “ay, as vinegar 
matches one’s teeth. If a man says a word, his 
wife ’ll match it with a contradiction ; if he’s a 
mind for hot meat, his wife ’ll match it with 
cold bacon ; if he laughs, she’ll match him with 
w'himpering. She’s such a match as th’ horse-fly is 
to th’ horse; she’s got the right venom to sting 
him with—the right venom to sting him with.” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Poyser, “ I know what the 
men like—a poor soft, as ’ud simper at ’em like 
the pictur o’ the sun, whether they did right or 
wrong, an’ say thank you for a kick, an’ pretend 

-.C 

thp: poyser fami: 

From “ .Ai 

n HERE’S father astanding at the yard gate,” 
said Martin Poyser. “ I reckon he wants 
to watch us down the field. It’s wonderful 
what sight he has, and him turned seventy-five.” 

“ Ah ! I often think it’s w'i’ th’ old folks as it is 


she didna know which end she stood uppermost, 
till her husband told her. That’s what a man 
Wyants in a wife, mostly ; he wants to make sure 
o’ one fool as’ll tell him he’s wise. But there’s 
some men can do wi’out that—they think so much 
o’ themselves a’ready ; an’ that’s how it is there’s 
old bachelors.” 

“ Come, Craig,” said Mr. Poyser, jocosely, 
“ you mun get married pretty quick, else you ’ll 
be set down for an old bachelor; an’ you see 
what the women ’ll think on you.” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Craig, willing to conciliate 
Mrs. Poyser, and setting a high value on his own 
compliments, “/ like a cleverish woman—a wo¬ 
man o’ sperrit—a managing woman.” 

“ You’re out there, Craig,” said Bartle, dryly ; 
“ you’re out there. You judge o’ your garden- 
stuff on a better plan than that; you pick the 
things for what they can excel in—for what they 
can excel in. You don’t value your peas for 
their roots, or your carrots for their flowers. 
Now, that’s the way you should choose women ; 
their cleverness ’ll never come to much—never 
come to much; but they make excellent simple¬ 
tons, ripe and strong-flavored.” 

“What dost say to that?” said Mr. Poyser, 
throwing himself back and looking merrily at his 
wife. 

“ Say ! ” answered Mrs. Poyser, with dangerous 
fire kindling in her eye; “why, I say as some 
folks’ tongues are like the clocks as run on strik¬ 
in’, not to tell you the time o’_ the day, but 
because there’s summat wrong i’ their own in¬ 
side.” 

Mrs. Poyser would probably have brought her 
rejoinder to a further climax, if everyone’s at¬ 
tention had not at this moment been called to the 
other end of the table. 


GO TO CHURCH. 

M Bede.” 

wi’ the babbies,” said Mrs. Poyser; “they’re 
satisfied wi’ looking, no matter what they’re look¬ 
ing at. It’s God Almighty’s way o’ quietening 
’em, I reckon, afore they go to sleep.” 

Old Martin opened the gate as'he saw the 













GEORGE ELIOT. 


259 


family procession approaching, and held it wide 
open, leaning on his stick—pleased to do this bit 
of work ; for, like all old men whose life has been 
spent in labor, he liked to feel that he was still 
useful—that there was a better crop of onions in 
the garden because he was by at the sowing, and 
that the cows would be milked the better if he 
staid at home on a Sunday afternoon to look on. 
He always went to church on Sacrament Sundays, 
but not very regularly at other times; on wet 
Sundays, or whenever he had a touch of rheuma¬ 
tism, he used to read the three first chapters of 
(lenesis instead. 

“They’ll ha putten Thias Bede i’ the ground 
afore ye get to the churchyard,” he said, as his 
son came up. “ It ’ud ha’ been better luck if 
they’d ha’ buried him i’ the forenoon, when the 
rain was failin’ ; there’s no likelihoods of a drop 
now, an’ the moon lies like a boat there, dost 
see? That’s a sure sign of fair weather; there’s 
many as is false, but that’s sure.” 

“Ay, ay,” said the son, “I’m in hopes it’ll 
hold uj) now.” 

“ Mind what the parson says—mind what the 
parson says, my lads,” said grandfather to the 
black-eyed youngsters in knee-breeches, conscious 
of a marble or two in their pockets, which they 
looked forward to handling a little, secretly, dur¬ 
ing the sermon. 

And when they were all gone, the old man 
leaned on the gate again, watching them across 
the lane, along the Home Close, and through the 
far gate, till they disapi)eared behind a bend in 
the hedge. For the hedgerows in those days shut 
out one’s view, even on the better-managed 
farms; and this afternoon the dog-roses were 
tossing out their i)ink wreaths, the night-shade 
was in its yellow and purple glory, the pale 
honeysuckle grew out of reach, peeping high up 
out of a holly bush, and, over all, an ash or a 
sycamore every now and then threw its shadow 
across the path. , 

'I'here were acquaintances at other gates who 
had to move aside and let them pass ; at the gate 
of the Home Close there was half the dairy of 
cows standing one behind the other, extremely 
slow to understand that their large bodies might 


be in the way ; at the far gate there yvas the mare 
holding her head over the bars, and beside her the 
liver-colored foal with its head toward its moth¬ 
er’s flank, apparently still much embarrassed by its 
own straddling existence. The way lay entirely 
through Mr. Poyser’s own fields till they reached 
the main road leading to the village, and he 
turned a keen eye on the stock and the crops as 
they went along, while Mrs. Poyser was ready to 
supply a running commentary on them all. The 
woman who manages a dairy has a large share in 
making the rent, so she may well be allowed to 
have her opinion on stock and their “keep”— 
an exercise which strengthens her understanding 
so much that she finds herself able to give her 
husband advice on most other subjects. 

“ There’s that short-horned Sally,” she said, as 
they entered the Home Close, and she caught 
sight of the meek beast that lay chewing the cud, 
and looking at her with a sleepy eye. “ I begin 
to hate the sight o’ the cow; and I say now what 
I said three weeks ago, the sooner we get rid of 
her th’ better, for there’s that little yallow cow as 
doesn’t give half the milk and yet I’ve twice as 
much butter from her.” 

“ Why, thee’t not like the women in general,” 
said Mr. Poyser; they like the short-horns, as 
give such a lot of milk. There’s Chowne’s wife 
wants him to buy no other sort.” 

“What’s it sinnify what Chowne’s wife likes ? 
a poor, soft thing, wi’ no more head-piece nor a 
sparrow. She’d take a big cullender to strain her 
lard wi’, and then wander as the scratchin’s run 
through. I’ve seen enough of her to know as I’ll 
niver take a servant from her house again—all 
huggermugger—and you’d niver know, when you 
went in, whether it was Monday or Friday, the 
wash draggin’ on to th’ end o’ the week; and as 
for her cheese, I know well enough it rose like a 
loaf in a tin last year. An’ then she talks o’ the 
weather bein’ i’ fault, as there’s folks ’ud stand 
on their heads and then say the fault was i’ their 
boots.” 

“Well, Chowne’s been wanting to buy Sally, so 
we can get rid of her, if thee lik’st,” said Mr. 
Poyser, secretly proud of his wife’s superior power 
of putting two and two together; indeed, on re- 



26o 


GEORGE ELIOT. 


cent market days, he had more than once boasted of 
her discernment in this very matter of short-horns. 

“Ay, them as choose a soft for a wife may’s 
well buy up the short-horns, for, if you get your 
head stuck in a bog, your legs may’s well go after 
it. Eh! talk o’ legs, there’s legs for you,’’ Mrs. 
Poyser continued, as Totty, who had been set 
down now the road was dry, toddled on in front 
of her father and mother. “There’s shapes! 
An’ she’s got such a long foot, she’ll be her fath¬ 
er’s own child.’’ 

“ Ay, she’ll be welly such a one as Hetty i’ ten 
years time, ony she’s got thy colored eyes. I 
niver remember a blue eye i’ my family; my 
mother had eyes as black as sloes, just like 
Hetty’s.” 

“ The child ’ull be none the worse for having 
summat as isn’t like Hetty. An’ I’m none for 
having her so over pretty. Though, for the mat¬ 
ter o’ that, there’s people wi’ light hair an’ blue 
eyes as pretty as them wi’ black. If Dinah had 
got a bit o’ color in her cheeks, an’ did n’t stick 
that Methodist cap on her head, enough to frighten 
the crows, folks ’ud think her as pretty as Hetty.” 

“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, with rather a 
contemptuous emphasis, “ thee dostna know the 
pints of a woman. The men ’ud niver run after 
Dinah as they would after Hetty.” 

“ What care I what the men ’ud run after ? It’s 
well seen what choice the most of ’em know how 
to make, by the poor draggle-tails o’ wives you 
see, like bits o’ gauze ribbin, good for nothing 
when the color’s gone.” 

“ Well, well, thee canstna say but what I know’d 
how to make a choice when I married thee,” said 
Mr. Poyser, who usually settled little conjugal dis¬ 
putes by a compliment of this sort, “and thee 
was twice as buxom as Dinah ten years ago.” 

“ I niver said as a woman had need to be ugly 
to make a good missis of a house. There’s 
Chowne’s wife ugly enough to turn the milk an’ 
save the rennet, but she’ll niver save nothing any 
other way. But as for Dinah, poor child, she’s 
niver likely to be buxom as long as she’ll make 
her dinner o’ cake and water, for the sake o’ giv¬ 
ing to them as want. She provoked me past bear¬ 
ing sometimes ; and, as I told her, she went clean 


again’ the Scriptur, for that says, ‘ Love your 
neighbor as yourself’; but I said, ‘if you loved 
your neighbor no better nor you do yourself, 
Dinah, it’s little enough you’d do for him. 
You’d be thinking he might do well enough on a 
half-empty stomach.’ Eh, I wonder where she is 
this blessed Sunday ! sitting by that sick woman, 
I daresay, as she’d set her heart on going to all 
of a sudden.” 

“ Ah ! it was a pity she should take such megrims 
int’ her head, when she might ha’ stayed wi’ us 
all summer, and eaten twice as much as she wanted, 
and it’d niver ha’ been missed. She made no 
odds in th’ house at all, for she sat as still at her 
sewing as a bird on the nest, and was uncommon 
nimble at running to fetch anything. If Hetty 
gets married, thee’dst like to ha’ Dinah wi’ thee 
constant.” 

“ It’s no use thinkin’ o’ that,” said Mrs. Poyser. 
“ You might as well beckon to the flyin’ swallow, 
as ask Dinah to come an’ live here comfortable 
like other folks. If any thing could turn her I 
should ha’ turned her, for I’ve talked to her for 
an hour on end, and scolded her too ; for she’s 
my own sister’s child, and it behooves me to do 
what I can for her. But eh, poor thing, as soon 
as she’d said us ‘good-bye,’ an’ got into the cart, 
an’ looked back at me with her pale face, a*s is 
welly like her Aunt Judith come back from heaven, 
I begun to be frightened to think o’ the set downs 
I’d given her; for it comes over you sometimes as 
if she’d a way o’ knowing the rights o’ things more 
nor other folks have. But I’ll niver give in as 
that’s ’cause she’s a Methodist, nor more nor a 
white calf’s white ’cause it eats out o’ the same 
bucket wi’ a black un.” 

“Nay,” said Mr. Poyser, with as near an ap¬ 
proach to a snarl as his good-nature would allow; 
“ I’ve no opinion o’ the Methodists. It’s only 
trades-folks as turn Methodists; you niver knew a 
farmer bitten wi’ them maggots. There’s maybe 
a workman now and then, as is n’t over diver at’s 
work, takes to preachin’ an’ that, like Seth Bede. 
But you see Adam, as has got one of the best 
head-pieces hereabout, knows better ; he’s a good 
Churchman, else I’d niver encourage him for a 
sweetheart for Hetty.” 




MRS. MARGARET OLIPHANT. 

THE MOST VERSATILE WOMAN IN ENGLISH LETTERS. 

ARGARET ORME OLIPHANT was born in Liverpool, in 1831, 
and very early in life began to write stories. Her first novel, 
“Passages in the Life of Mrs. Margaret Meitland, of Sunnyside,” 
appeared in 1849, Er nearly a half-century afterward she con¬ 
tinued to pour forth in a continuous stream most delightful work 
in fiction, history, biography, and criticism. Her early works 
appeared principally in Blackwood''s Magazine, which has an 
enviable distinction among English periodicals for discovering new and brilliant 
contributors. 

Mrs. Oliphant soon took a high place in the world of letters, and no other 
woman has written so successfully in so many different departments. Among her 
novels are: “Adam Graeme of Mossgray,” “The Minister’s Wife,” “A Rose in 
June,” “The Ladies Lindores,” “The Second Son,” “Joyce,” “A Poor Gentle¬ 
man,” and her last book, published early in 1897, just before her death, “The 
Ways of Life.” She has written much biography, and contributed very many 
critical articles to English magazines. Her “Life of Edward Irving,” “Historical 
Sketches of the Reign of George II,” “The Makers of Florence,” “The Literary 
History of England,” “The Makers of Venice,” and a “Biography of Laurence 
Oliphant,” are among her best-known works. 

Her death has called forth expressions of regret and admiration from literary 
people throughout the English-speaking world. 

-- 



AN ENGLISH RECTOR AND RECTORY. 
From “A Rose in June.” 


ARTHA, Martha, thou art careful and 
troubled about many things. Let the 
child alone—she will never be young 
again if she should live a hundred years.’’ 

These words were spoken in the garden of 


Dinglefield Rectory on a very fine summer day a 
few years ago. The speaker was Mr. Damerel, 
the Rector, a middle-aged man, with very fine, 
somewhat worn features, a soft, benignant smile, 
and, as everybody said who knew him, the most 


261 





























262 


MRS. MARGARET OLIPHANT. 


charming manner in the world. He was a man 
of very elegant mind, as well as manners. He 
did not preach often, but when he did preach all 
the educated persons of his congregation felt 
that they had very choice fare indeed set before 
them. I am afraid the poor people liked the 
curate best; but then the curate liked them 
best, and it mattered very little to any man 
or woman of refinement what sentiment existed 
between the cottage and the curate. Mr. Damerel 
was perfectly kind and courteous to everybody, 
gentle and simple, who came in his way, but he 
w'as not fond of ])oor people in the abstract. He 
di.sliked everything that was unlovely; and, alas ! 
there are a great many unlovely things in pov¬ 
erty. 

The rectory garden at Dinglefield is a delight¬ 
ful place. The house is on the summit of a little 
hill, or rather tableland, for in the front, toward 
the green, all is level and soft, as becomes an 
English village ; but on the other side the descent 
begins toward the lower country, and from the 
drawing-room windows and the lawn the view 
extended over a great plain, lighted up with links 
of river, and fading into unsi)eakable hazes of 
distance, such as were the despair of every artist, 
and the delight of the fortunate people who lived 
there, and were entertained day.by day with the 
sight of all the sunsets, the midday splendors, the 
flying shadows, the soft, prolonged twilights, Mr. 
Damerel was fond of saying that no place he 
knew so lent itself to idleness as this. “ Idleness ! 

I speak as the foolish ones speak,” he was wont 
to say; “for what occupation could be more 
ennobling than to watch those gleams and shadows 
—all nature spread out before you, and demand¬ 
ing attention, though so softly that only those 
who have ears hear. I allow, my gentle nature here 
does not shout at you, and compel your regard, 
like her who dwells among the Al])s, for instance. 
My dear, you are always so practical; but so 
long as you leave me my landscape I want little 
more. ” 

Thus the Rector would discourse. It was only 
a very little more he wanted—only to have his 
garden and lawn in perfect order, swept and 
trimmed every morning, like a lady’s boudoir, ^ 


and refreshed with every variety of flower; to 
have his table not heavily loaded with vulgar 
English joints, but daintily covered, and oh ! so 
delicately served; the linen always fresh, the 
crystal always fine-; the ladies dressed as ladies 
should be ; to have his wine—of which he took 
very little—always fine, of choice vintage, and 
with awhich rejoiced the heart; to have 
plenty of new books; to have quiet, undisturbed 
by the noise of the children, or any other trouble¬ 
some noise which broke the harmony of nature; 
and especially undisturbed by bills and cares, such 
as, he declared, at once shorten life and take all 
pleasure out of it. 'This was all he required, and 
surely never man had tastes more moderate, more 
innocent, more virtuous and refined. 

'I’he little scene to Avhich I have thus abruptly 
introduced the reader took place in the most 
delicious ])art of the garden. The deep stillness 
of noon was over the sunshiny world ; part of the 
lawn was brilliant in light; the very insects were 
sul)dued out of the buzz of activity by the spell 
of the sunshine; but here, under the lime-tree, 
there was a grateful shade, where everything took 
breath. Mr. Damerel was seated in a chair which 
had been made expressly for him, and which com¬ 
bined the comfort of soft cushions with such a 
rustic appearance as became its habitation out of 
doors; under his feet was a soft Persian rug, in 
colors blended with all the harmony which belongs 
to the Eastern loom; at his side a pretty, carved 
table, with a raised rim, with books upon it, and 
a thin Venice glass, containing a rose. 

Another rose—the Rose of my story—was half¬ 
sitting, half-reclining on the grass at his feel—a 
pretty, light figure in a soft muslin dress, almost 
white, with bits of soft rose-colored ribbons here 
and there. She was the eldest child of the house. 
Her features I do not think were at all remarkable, 
but she had a bloom so soft, so delicate, so sweet, 
that her father’s fond title for her, “a Rose in 
June,” was everywhere acknowledged as appro¬ 
priate. .\ rose of the very season of roses was 
this Rose. Her very smile, which went and came 
like breath, never away for two minutes together, 
yet never lasting beyond the time you took to 
look at her, was_ flowery too—I can scarceh tell 



MRS. MARGARET OLIPHANT. 


263 


why. For my own part, she always reminded me 
not so much of a garden rose in its glory, as of a 
bunch of wild roses, all blooming and smiling 
from the bough—here pink, here white, here with 


a dozen ineffable tints. In all her life she had 
never had occasion to ask herself was she happy. 
Of course she was happy ! Did she not live, and 
was not that enough ? 


>3. 


EDWARD IRVING. 

From “A Literary History ok F.ngland.” 


HALMERS and Irving were, with the ex¬ 
ception of Robert Hall, the two greatest 
preachers of their day. Irving had passed 
a year or two as Chalmers’ assistant at Glasgow 
before he went to London, in 1822, and where 
the world found him out, and in his obscure chapel 
he became almost the most noted of all the nota¬ 
bilities of town. Even now, when his story is 
well known, and his own journals and letters have 
proved the nobleness and sincerity of the man, it 
is difficult for the world to forget that it once be¬ 
lieved him after having followed and stared at 
him as a prodigy—an impostor or a madman. 
And it is well known that the too lofty and un¬ 
worldly strain of his great mind separated him 
from that homely standing-ground of fact upon 
which alone our mortal footsteps are safe ; and 
from the very exaltation of his aspiring soul 
brought him down into humiliation, subjection 
to jiettier minds, and to the domination of a 
sect created by his impulse, yet reigning over 
him. 

The eloquence of Irving was like nothing else 
known in his day. Something of the lofty paral¬ 
lelism of the Hebrew, something of the noble 
English of our Bible, along with that solemn 
national form of poetic phraseology, “such as 
grave lovers do in Scotland use,’’ composed the 
altogether individual style in which he wrote and 
spoke. It was no assumed or elaborated style, 
but the natural utterance of a mind cast in other 
moulds than those common to the men of the 
nineteenth century, and in himself at once a 
]jrimitive prophet, a medieval leader, and a Scotch 
Borderer, who had never been subject to the trim¬ 
ming and chopping influence of society. It is 
said that a recent publication of his sermons has i 


failed to attract the public; and this is compre¬ 
hensible enough, for large volumes of sermons are 
not popular literature. But the reader who takes 
the trouble to overcome the disinclination which 
is so apt to arrest us on the threshold of such a 
study, will find himself carried along by such a 
lofty simplicity, by such a large and noble manli¬ 
ness of tone, by the originality of a mind incapa¬ 
ble of doubt taking God at His word, instinct 
with that natural faith in all things divine which 
is, we think, in its essence, one of the many in¬ 
heritances of genius—though sometimes rejected 
and disowned—that he will not grudge the pains. 
He who held open before the orphan that grand 
refuge of the “fatherhood of God,” which struck 
the listening statesman with wondering admira¬ 
tion ; he who, in intimating a death, “made 
known to them the good intelligence that our 
brother has had a good voyage, so far as we could 
follow him or hear tidings of him,” saw every¬ 
thing around him with magnified and ennobled 
vision, and spoke of what he saw with the grandeur 
yet simplicity of a seer—telling his arguments and 
his reasonings as if they had been a narrative, 
and making a great poetic story of the workings 
of the mind and its labors and consolations. 

In the most abstruse of his subjects this method 
continues to be always aiiparent. The sermon is 
like a sustained and breathless tale, with an af¬ 
finity to the minute narrative of Defoe or of the 
jirimitive historians. The pauses are brief, the 
sentences long, but the interest does not flag. 
Once afloat upon the stream, the reader—and in 
his day how much more the hearer !—finds it dif¬ 
ficult to release himself from the full-flowing tide 
of interest in which he looks for the accustomed 
breaks and breathing-places in vain. 











MRS. HUMPHRY WARD. 

THE MOST DISTINGUISHED LIVING WRITER OF ENGLISH NOVELS. 

ARY Augusta Arnold was born in Tasmania in 1851. Her father 
was a younger brother of Matthew Arnold, the distinguished critic 
and man of letters, and filled the station of a government officer 
in Tasmania. He afterward became a professor in the Roman 
Catholic University of Dublin, but because of a change of faith he 
left it and settled at Oxford, devoting himself to literary work. 
His daughter married Mr. Humphry Ward, author of a number of 
biographical and historical books. 

Mrs. Ward has written several articles in Macmillan''s Magazine over the sig¬ 
nature “ M. A. W. ” ; but she is best known by the name of her husband, signing 
herself in her principal books “Mrs. Humphry Ward.” Her earlier works, “ Millie 
and Ollie,” “Miss Bretherton,” and a translation of “Amiel’s Journal,” gained 
her considerable reputation, but it is to the novel, “Robert Elsrnere,” published in 
1888, that she owes her greatest fame. The book well deserves the reputation it 
immediately gained. It is a powerfully drawn picture of the intellectual life of a 
scholarly young Englishman, who gradually finds himself swept away from his 
orthodox beliefs, and compelled by his unflinching integrity to resign his position 
as rector in an English parish where he is doing a noble work, and to take up the 
struggle of life amid new surroundings. The great majority of Christian people 
will not agree with Robert Elsmere’s later views; but it is to be conceded that the 
character is a noble one, and that, as a piece of artistic work, the book has few 
equals among our English novels. Mrs. Ward’s latest work is “The Story of Sir 
George Trassady,” which, in dramatic power and the delineation of character, 
stands only second to her former great book. 

-4!-!F- 



OXFORD. 

From “ I\Iiss Bretherton.” 


n HE weather was all that the heart of man 
could desire, and the party met on Pad¬ 
dington platform with every prospect of 
another successful day. Forbes turned up punc¬ 


tual to the moment, and radiant under the com¬ 
bined influence of the sunshine and of Miss Breth- 
erton’s presence; Wallace had made all the ar¬ 
rangements perfectly, and the six friends found 


264 

























MRS. HUMPHRY WARD. 


265 


themselves presently journeying along to Oxford. 
At last the “dreaming spires” of Oxford rose 
from the green, river-threaded plain, and they 
were at their journey’s end. A few more minutes 
saw them alighting at the gate of the new Balliol, 
where stood Herbert Sartoris looking out for them. 
He was a young don with a classical edition on 
hand which kept him working up after term, 
within reach of the libraries, and he led the way 
to some pleasant rooms overlooking the inner 
quadrangle of Balliol, showing in his well-bred 
look and manner an abundant consciousness of 
the enormous good fortune which had sent him 
Isabel Bretherton for a guest. For at that time it 
was almost as difficult to obtain the presence of 
Miss Bretherton at any social festivity as it was to 
obtain that of royalty. Her Sundays were the ob¬ 
jects of conspiracies for weeks beforehand on the 
part of those persons in London society wdio were 
least accustomed to have their invitations refused, 
and to have and to hold the famous beauty for 
more than an hour in his own rooms, and then to 
enjoy the privilege of spending five or six long 
hours on the river with her, were delights which, 
as the happy young man felt, would render him 
the object of envy to all at least of his fellow-dons 
below forty. 

In streamed the party, filling up the book-lined 
rooms and startling the two old scouts in attend¬ 
ance into unwonted rapidity of action. Miss 
Bretherton wandered around, surveyed the familiar 
Oxford luncheon-table, groaning under the time- 
honored summer fare, the books, the engravings, 
and the sunny, irregular, quadrangle outside, with 
its rich adornings of green, and threw herself 
down at last on to the low window seat with a sigh 
of satisfaction. 

“ How quiet you are ! how peaceful ! how de¬ 
lightful it must be to live here ! It seems as if one 
were in another world from London. Tell me 
what that building is over there; it’s too new, it 
ought to be old and gray like the colleges we saw 
coming up here. Is everybody gone away— 
‘gone down’ you say? I should like to see all 
the learned people walking about for once.” 

“ I could show you a good many if there were 
time,” said young Sartoris, hardly knowing, how¬ 


ever, what he was saying, so lost was he in admira¬ 
tion of that marvelous changing face. “ The va¬ 
cation is the time they show themselves; it’s like 
owls coming out at night. You see. Miss Breth¬ 
erton, we don’t keep many of them; they are in 
the way in term time. But in vacation they have 
the colleges and the parks and the Bodleian to 
themselves, and their umbrellas, under the most 
favorable conditions.” 

“Oh, yes,” said Miss Bretherton, with a little 
scorn, “ people always make fun of what they are 
proud of. But I mean to believe that you are all 
learned, and that everybody here works himself to 
death, and that Oxford is quite, quite perfect! ” 

“Did you hear what Miss Bretherton was say¬ 
ing, Mrs. Stuart,” said Forbes, when they were 
seated at luncheon. “Oxford is perfect, she de¬ 
clares already ; I do n’t think I quite like it; it’s 
too hot to last.” 

“Am I such a changeable creature, then?” 
said Miss Bretherton, smiling at him. “ Do you 
generally find my enthusiasms cool down ? ” 

“You are as constant as you are kind,” said 
Forbes, bowing to her. . . . “Oh! the 

good times I’ve had up here—much better than he 
ever had”—nodding across at Kendal, who was 
listening. “ He was too proper behaved to enjoy 
himself; he got all the right things, all the proper 
first-classes and prizes, poor fellow! But, as for 
me, I used to scribble over my note-books all lec¬ 
ture-time, and amuse myself the rest of the day. 
And then, you see, I was up twenty years earlier 
than he was, and the world was not as virtuous 
then as it is now, by a long way.” 

Kendal was interrupting, when Forbes, who was 
in one of his maddest moods, turned around upon 
his chair to watch a figure passing along the quad¬ 
rangle in front of the bay-window. 

“I say, Sartoris, isn’t that Camden, the tutor 
who was turned out of Magdalen a year or two ago 
for that atheistical book of his, and whom you 
took in, as you do all the disreputables? Ah, I 
knew it I 

‘ By the pricking of my thumbs 
Something wicked this way comes.’ 

That’s not mine, my dear Miss Bretherton; it’s 



266 


MRS. HUMPHRY WARD. 


Shakespeare’s first, Charles Lamb’s afterward. 
But look at him well—he’s a heretic, a real, genu¬ 
ine heretic. Twenty years ago it would have 
been a thrilling sight; but now, alas! it’s so com¬ 
mon that it’s not the victim but the i)ersecutors 
who are the curiosity.” 

“I don’t know that,” said young Sartoris. 
“ We liberals are by no means the cocks of the 
walk that we were a few years ago. You see, 
now we have got nothing to pull against, as it 
were. So long as we had two or three good griev¬ 
ances, we could keep the party together, and 
attract all the young men. We were Israel going 
up against the Philistines, who had us in their 
grip. But now, things are changed; we’ve got 
our way all round, and it’s the Church party who 
have the grievances and the cry. It is we who 
are the Philistines, and the oppressors in our turn, 
and, of course, the young men as they grow up 
are going into the opposition.” 

“ And a very good thing, too !” said Forbes. 
“ It’s the only thing that ])revents Oxford becom¬ 
ing as dull as the rest of the world. All your 
picturesqueness, so to speak, has been struck out 
of the struggle between the two forces. The 
Church force is the one that has given you all 
your buildings and your beauty, while, as for you 
liberals, who will know such a lot of things that 
you’re none the happier for knowing—well, I sup¬ 
pose you keep the place habitable for the plain 
man who doesn’t want to be bullied. But it’s a 
very good thing the other side are strong enough 
to keep you in order.” .... 

Then they strolled into the quiet cathedral. 


delighted themselves with its irregular bizarre 
beauty, its unexpected turns and corners, which 
gave it a capricious fanciful air for all the solidity 
and business-like strength of its Norman frame¬ 
work, and as the’y rambled out again Forbes 
made them pause over a window in the northern 
aisle—a window by some Flemish artist of the 
fifteenth century, who seems to have embodied in 
it at once all his knowledge and all his dreams. 
In front sat Jonah under his golden-tinted gourd 
—an ill-tempered Flemish peasant—while behind 
him the indented roofs of the Flemish town 
climbed the whole height of the background. It 
was probably the artist’s native town ; some roof 
among those carefully-outlined gables sheltered 
his household Lares. But the hill on which the 
town stood, and the mountainous background 
and the purple sea, where the hills and the sea 
not of Belgium, but of a dream-country—of Italy, 
perhaps, the medieval artist’s paradise. 

“Happy man 1 ” said Forbes, turning to Miss 
Bretherton ; “look, he put it together four cen¬ 
turies ago, all he knew and all he dreamt of. And 
there it is to this day, and beyond the spirit of 
that window there is no getting. For all our 
work, if we do it honestly, is a compound of what 
we know and what we dream.” 

They passed out into the cool and darkness of 
the cloisters, and through the new buildings, and 
soon they were in the broad walk, trees as old as 
the commonwealth bending overhead, and in front 
the dazzling green of the June meadows, the shin¬ 
ing river in the distance, and the sweep of cloud- 
flecked blue arching in the whole. 






JEAN INGELOW. 

LYRICAL POET AND NOVELIST. 

HEN at the death of Tennyson it was necessary to seek a successor 
in the office of Poet Laureate, it was the feeling- of a very large 
portion of the English public that the place should be filled by this 
sweet and noble woman who for nearly forty years had held so 
large a place in the heart of every lover of beautiful poetry. 

Jean Ingelow was a native of the old English town of Boston. 
Her father was a banker, and she was a member of a large family. 
She was not thought the brightest of the eleven children, and received her entire 
education under her father’s roof. “ My favorite retreat,” says she, “ was a lofty 
room in the old house where there was a low window which overlooked the river. 
The windows had the good old-fashioned shutters which folded back against the 
walls. I would open these shutters, write my verses and songs on them, and fold 
them back again. My mother came in one day and discovered them ; many of 
them were transmitted to paper and preserved.” 

Her first volume of poems, “Tales of Orris,” was published in i860, when 
Miss Ingelow was thirty years old. It was so popular that it passed through four 
editions in the first year, and has now attained its twenty-sixth. Three years later 
she published another volume of poems, and continued to write until near the close 
of her life in June, 1897. Eer most famous poem is “ The High Tide on the Coast 
of Lincolnshire.” In 1873 ^^e published “Off the Skellings,” a novel whose merits 
would have attracted attention had the fame of its author not insured it a hearing. 
“ Fated to be Free ” ; “ Mopsa the Fairy,” a story for children ; “Sarah de Beren- 
ger,” and “ Don John ” are her other most successful novels. This last was 
published in 1881. 

Miss Ingelow lived during her closing years in Kensington, London, although 
her health compelled her to pass the winters in the south of France. Her life was 
simple and uneventful, and the line from her most famous poem may well be 
applied to herself: 

“ Sweeter woman ne’er drew breath,” 



267 











268 


JEAN INGELOW. 


SONGS OF SEVEN. 


SEVEN TIMES ONE. 

Exultation, 

HERE’S no dew left on the daisies and 
clover, 

There’s no rain left in heaven ; 

I’ve said my “seven times” over and over, 

Seven times one are seven. 

I am old, so old, I can write a letter; 

My birthday lessons are done ; 

The lambs play always, they know no better; 

They are only one times one. 

O moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 
And shining so round and low; 

You were bright ! ah bright ! but your light is 
failing,— 

You are nothing now but a bow. 

You moon, have you done something wrong in i 
heaven 

That God has hidden your face ? 

I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven. 

And shine again in your place, 

O columbine, open your folded wrapper. 

Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! 

O cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper 
That hangs in your clear green bell ! 

And show me your nest with the young ones in it; 

I will not steal them away ; 

I am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,— 

I am seven times one to-day. 


SEVEN TIMES TWG. 

Romance. 

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your 
changes, 

How many soever they be, 

And let the brown meadow-lark’s note as he 
ranges 

Come over, come over to me. 

Yet bird’s clearest carol by fall or by swelling 

No magical sense conveys. 

And the bells have forgotten their old art of 
telling 

The fortune of future days. 


Poor bells ! I forgive you; your good days are 
over. 

And mine, they are yet to be; 

No listening, no longing shall aught, aught dis¬ 
cover ; 

You leave the story to me. 

I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster, 
Nor long summer bide so late; 

And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, 
For some things are ill to wait, 

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover. 
While dear hands are laid on my head ; 

“ The child is a w'oman, the book may close over. 
For all the lessons are said.” 

I wait for my story—the birds can not sing it. 

Not one, as he sits on the tree; 

The bells can not ring it, but long years, oh bring 
it, 

Such as I wish it to be.. 

SEVEN TIMES THREE. 

Love. 

I lean’d out of window, I smelt the white clover, 
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate; 
“ Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one 
lover— 

Hush, nightingale, hush ! O sweet nightingale, 
wait 

Till I listen and hear 
If a step draweth near, 

For my love he is late ! 

“ The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and 
nearer, 

A cluster of stars hang like fruit in the tree. 

The fall of the river comes sweeter, comes 
clearer: 

To what art thou listening, and what dost thou 
see ? 

Let the star-clusters glow. 

Let the sweet waters flow. 

And cross quickly to me. 

“You night-moths that hover where honey brims 
over 

From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 
You glow-worms, shine out, and the pathway 
discover 





JEAN INGELOW. 


269 


To him that comes darkling along the rough 
steep. 

Ah, my sailor, make haste. 

For the time runs to waste. 

And my love lieth deep— 

■“Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one 
lover. 

I’ve conn’d thee an answer, it waits thee to¬ 
night.” 

By the sycamore pass’d he, and through the 
white clover. 

Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took 
flight; 

But I’ll love him more, more 
Than e’er wife loved before. 

Be the days dark or bright. 


SEVEN TIMES FIVE. 
Widowhood. 

I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan 
Before I am well awake ; 

Let me bleed ! O let me alone. 

Since I must not break ! ” 


I lift mine eyes and what to see, 

But a world happy and fair ? 

I have not wished it to mourn with me— 
Comfort is not there. 

Oh, what anear but golden brooms. 

And a waste of reedy rills ! 

Oh, what afar but the fine glooms 
On the rare blue hills! 

I shall not die, but live forlorn ; 

How bitter it is to part! 

Oh, to meet thee, my love, once more ! 
Oh, my heart, my heart ! 


No more to hear, no more to see ; 

Oh, that an echo might wake. 

And waft one note of thy psalm to me 
Ere my heart-strings break ! 

I should know it how faint soe’er. 

And with angel-voices blent; 

Oh, once to feel thy spirit anear, 

I could be content! 


For children wake, though fathers sleep 
With a stone at foot and head ; 

O sleepless God, forever keep. 

Keep both living and dead ! 


Or once between the gates of gold. 
While an angel entering trod. 
But once—thee sitting to behold 
On the hills of God ! 



^ —0 








3 


•i 


WILLIAM PITT, EARL OF CHATHAM. 

' THE GREAT COMMONER. 

ONG the famous orators of the eighteenth century, none has con¬ 
ferred so many benefits upon America as the great statesman who 
stood her friend and fought her battles almost alone in the Parlia¬ 
ment of England. 

William Pitt was educated at Oxford; but severe attacks of 
gout, to which he was subject almost throughout his life, caused 
him to leave college and travel in the south of Europe. On his 
return he entered the army, but was chosen a member of Parliament in 1735. 
rapidly came to occupy a leading position, although his independence and his 
criticism of the ministers of George II retarded his promotion to office. He became 
premier, however, in 1757, but held office only for a few months, the dislike of the 
King causing him to be dismissed. He was, however, the most popular statesman 
in England, and he soon returned to office. His health breaking down, he resigned ; 
but returned to public life in 1771, and took a prominent part in opposition to the 
oppression of America. In a famous address, a portion of which is given below, he 
not only predicted the repeal of the Boston Port Bill and the other offensive 
measures, but did much to bring that repeal about. One of his most memorable 
speeches was that delivered in 1777, against employing Indians to fight against the 
Americans. His ill-health kept him from taking a very active part in the debates ; 
but he insisted on making a speech in May, 1778, in the midst of which he 
suffered an apoplectic stroke. He lingered only a ffiw weeks. 

“His eloquence,” says Brougham, “was of the very highest order. Vehe¬ 
ment, fiery, close to the subject, concise, and sometimes boldly figurative, it was 
original and surprising, yet quite natural, to find passages or felicitous hints in 
which the popular assemblies took boundless delight. Some fragments of his 
speeches have been handed down to us; but these bear so small a proportion to 
the prodigious fame which his eloquence has left behind it. that far more is mani¬ 
festly lost than has reached us.” 

In public office he was an example of disinterested independence, and in an 
age when public life was almost universally corrupt, he convinced the public that 
he was proof against all sorts of temptation. His reputation was made in the 
House of Commons, and he was almost idolized by the people, who called him 
The Great Commoner; but he sacrificed some of his popularity when, in 1766, he 
was raised to the peerage as Earl of Chatham. 

270 

















WILLIAM PITT, EARL OF CHATHAM. 


271 


REPEAL CLAIMED BY AMERICANS AS A RIGHT. 
From'“The Speech Against the Boston Port Bill.” 


T is not repealing this or that act of Parlia¬ 
ment,—it is not repealing a piece of 
parchment,—that can restore America to 
our bosom. You must repeal her fears and her 
resentments; and you may then hope for her love 
and gratitude. But now, insulted by an armed 
force at Boston, irritated by a hostile array before 
her eyes, her concessions, if you could force them, 
would be suspicious and insecure,—the dictates 
of fear, and the e.xtortions of force ! But it is 
more than evident that you can not force them, 
principled and united as they are, to your un¬ 
worthy terms of submission. Repeal, therefore, 
my Lords, I say! But bare repeal will not satisfy 
this enlightened and spirited people. You must 
go through the work. You must declare you have 
no right to tax. Then they may trust you. There 
is no time to be lost. Every moment is big with 
dangers. While I am speaking, the decisive blow 
may be struck, and millions involved in the con- 
seipience. The very first drop of blood shed in 
civil and unnatural war will make a wound which 
years, perhaps ages, may not heal. It will be 
ininiedica bile z 7/ Inns. 

When your Lordships look at the jiapers trans¬ 
mitted to us from America,—when } ou consider 
their decency, firmness, and wi.sdom,—\(m can 
not but respect their cause, and wish to make it 
your own. I must declare and avow, that, in the 
master states of the world, I know not the people 
nor the Senate, who, under such a complication 
of difficult circumstances, can stand in preference 
to the delegates of America assembled in General 
Congress at Philadelphia. For genuine sagacity, 
for singular moderation, for solid wisdom, manly 
spirit, sublime sentiments, and simplicity of lan¬ 
guage,—for everything respectable and honorable, 
—they stand unrivaled. 


I trust it is obvious to your Lordships that all 
attempts to impose servitude upon such men, to 
establish despotism over such a mighty Conti¬ 
nental Nation, must be vain, must be fatal. This 
wise people speak out. They do not hold the 
language of slaves. They tell you what they 
mean. They do not ask you to repeal your laws 
as a favmr. They claim it as right—they demand 
it. They tell you they will not submit to them. 
We .shall be forced ultimately to retract. Let us 
retract while we can, not when we must. I say 
we must necessarily undo these violent, oppressive 
acts. They must be repealed. You will repeal 
them. I pledge myself for it, that you will, in 
the end, repeal them. I stake my reputation on 
it. I will consent to be taken for an idiot, if they 
are not finally repealed. 

Avoid, then, this humiliating, this disgraceful 
necessity. Every motive of justice and of policy, 
of dignity and of prudence, urges you to allay 
the ferment in America, by a removal of your 
troo] 3 S from Boston, by a repeal of your acts of 
Parliament. On the other hand, every danger 
and every hazard impend, to deter you from per¬ 
severance in your present ruinous measures;— 
foreign war hanging over your heads by a slight 
and brittle thread,—France and Spain watching 
your conduct, and waiting the maturity of your 
errors ! 

To conclude, my Lords ; if the ministers thus 
persevere in misadvising and misleading the King, 
I will not say that they can alienate the affections 
of his subjects from the Crown, but I will affirm 
that they will make his Crown not worthy his 
wearing; I will not say that the King is betrayed, 
but I will announce that the Kingdom is un¬ 
done ! 











dltllllllllliillllllliillllllllllllllllllllllllllllllillltlillMlllllilllllilllllllllUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIillllllllliMlllilinilllliltlllHIIIIIIIIIIMilllilll^ 

Ei 

i! 

eJ 

E « 
Ed 

= i 

^®©f)f)f)^«f)f)®0©©©©©0©©©©©©©©©©©©©©®©®©©©T 

Ie 

! = 

? = 

51 


D © © © © © © Q ©'©©’© ©fe' © © (i & ©0© © © ©fi© © ^ © © Q ^ © © © C 

^IIIIUIIIIIIinillllllllllllllllllillliMlllllllllinilllillillllllMlillllHillllllllllliillllllillllllllllllllllDlllllllllilllllilllllllllllllllllllirr 





BENJAMIN DISRAELI. 

EARL OF BEACONSFIELD. 

I'HER great Englrsh statesmen have contributed to the more serious 
departments of literature, but it is Disraeli alone among the prime 
ministers of England who takes rank among the writers of great 
novels. 

Of Jewish descent, he was born in 1805, received a private 
education, and prepared for the law; but decided upon literature 
instead. When he had barely reached the years of manhood, he 
produced a novel, “Vivian Gray,” which was not only well received in England, 
but was translated into several other languages. Several other novels followed 
during the years between 1828 and 1834, and he then turned his attention to 
politics, preparing several pamphlets, one of which was “ A Vindication of the 
English Constitution.” A series of political letters in the London Times, under the 
signature of Runnymeade, followed these. 

Disraeli had made several efforts to enter Parliament, but it was only in 1837 
that he succeeded. He seems to have been exceedingly awkward in his early 
attempts at oratory. His first speech in the House of Commons was received with 
such shouts of laughter that he could not go on. The stern stuff of which the 
future prime minister was made became evident in the defiant words with which 
he took his seat. “ I have begun several times many things, and have succeeded 
at last. I will sit down now; but the time will come when hear me.” Ten 

years later he was acknowledged as one of the strongest speakers in the House 
of Commons. His reputation was established by his attacks on the free-trade 
policy of Sir Robert Peel. His political course can not be called a consistent one, 
but his wonderful ability enabled him to obtain and to maintain a hold upon the 
conservative party, which continued throughout his life, and he became a great 
favorite of Queen Victoria. He became prime minister in 1868, and again in 
1874. and was raised to the peerage as Earl of Beaconsfield in 1877. Besides those 
already mentioned, his most famous novels are “ Coningsby Tancred ; or the New 
Crusade,” “Lothair,” published in 1870, and which had an enormous circulation, 
and “ Endymion,” which was his last literary work. Disraeli’s literary power was 
very, great, but the quality of his novels is by no means uniform. Several of them 
were of a flimsy character, and it is sometimes objected to his work that an air of 
cold insincerity is manifest throughout his pictures of society. 

272 




























WII.I.IXM KWART Ct.ADSTONK. 


JOHN BRIGHT. 




BENJAMIN DISRAELI. 

ENGLISH ST.\TESMEN 


WILLIA.M PITT, 

IN LITER.\TURE. 


EARL OF CHATHAM. 
























BENJAMIN DISRAELI. 


2/3 


MR. PHCEBUS’S VIEWS OF ART AND EDUCATION. 
From “ Lothair.” 


D r. PHCEBUS was the most successful, not 
to say the most eminent, painter of the 
age. He was the descendant of a noble 
family of Gascony that had emigrated to England 
from France in the reign of Louis XIV. Unques¬ 
tionably they had mixed their blood frequently 
during the interval and the vicissitudes of their 
various life ; but in Gaston Phoebus Nature had 
chosen to reproduce exactly the original type. 

“It is presumption in my talking about such 
things,” said Lothair; “but might I venture to 
ask what you may consider the true principles of 
art?” 

^^Atyan principles,” said Mr. Phoebus; “not 
merely the study of Nature, but of beautiful Na¬ 
ture; the art of design in a country inhabited by 
a first-rate race, and where the laws, the manners, 
the customs, are calculated to maintain the health 
and beauty of a first-rate race. In a greater or 
less degree, these conditions obtained from the 
age of Pericles to the age of Hadrian in pure 
Aryan communities; but Semitism began then to 
prevail, and ultimately triumphed. Semitism has 
destroyed Art; it taught man to despise his own 
body, and the essence of art is to honor the human 
frame.” 

“I am afraid I ought not to talk about such 
things,” said Lothair, “but, if by Semitism you 
mean religion, surely the Italian painters, inspired 
by Semitism, did something.” 

“ Great things,” said Mr. Phoebus; “ some of 
the greatest. Semitism gave them subjects, but 
the Renaissance gave them Aryan art, and it gave 
that art to a purely Aryan race. But Semitism 
rallied in the shape of the Reformation, and 
swept all away. When Leo the Tenth was pope, 
popery was pagan ; popery is now Christian, and 
Art is extinct.” 

“ I can not enter into such controversies,” said 
Lothair. “ Every day I feel more and more I am 
extremely ignorant.” 

“ Do not regret it,” said Mr. Phoebus. “ What 
you call ignorance is your strength. By igno¬ 
rance you mean a want of knowledge of books. 
Books are fatal; they are the curse of the human 


race. Nine-tenths of existing books are nonsense, 
and the clever books are the refutation of that 
nonsense. The greatest misfortune that ever 
befell man was the invention of printing. Print¬ 
ing has destroyed education. Art is a great 
thing, and Science is a great thing; but all that 
Art and Science can reveal can be taught by man 
and by his attributes—his voice, his hand, his 
eye. The essence of education is the education 
of the body. Beauty and health are the chief 
sources of happiness. Men should live in the 
air; their exercises should be regular, varied, scien¬ 
tific. To render his body strong and supple is the 
first duty of man. He should develop and com¬ 
pletely master the whole muscular system. What 
I admire in the order to which you belong is that 
they do live in the air; that they excel in athletic 
sports; that they can only speak one language; 
and that they never read. This is not a complete 
education, but it is the highest education since 
the Greek.” 

“What you say I feel encouraging,” said 
Lothair, “for I myself live very much in the air, 
and am fond of all sports; but I confess I am 
often ashamed of being so poor a linguist, and 
was seriously thinking that I ought to read.” 

“No doubt every man should combine an 
intellectual with a physical training,” replied Mr. 
Phcebus; “but the popular conception of the 
means is radically Avrong. Youth should attend 
lectures on art and science by the most illustrious 
professors, and should converse together afterward 
on what they have heard. They should learn to 
talk; it is a rare accomplishment, and extremely 
healthy. They should have music always at their 
meals. The theater, entirely remodeled and 
reformed, and under a minister of state, should 
be an important element of education. I should 
not object to the recitation of lyric poetry. That 
is enough. I would not have a book in the house, 
or even see a newspaper.” 

“ These are Aryan principles? ” said Lothair. 

“ They are,” said Mr. Phoebus; “and of such 
principles I believe a great revival is at hand. 
We shall both live to see another Renaissance.” 






JOHN BRK}HT. 

THE QUAKER STATP:SMAN. 

O true American can fail to be interested in the orreat Englishman 

o o 

who, by the magic of his eloquence and the power of his name, 
did so much to retain for us the sympathy of the working-classes 
of his country during our civil war. John Bright is the English 
statesman who, more than any other, has demonstrated that in 
high places in the government, personal honor, absolute integrity, 
and open candor, are the best rules of conduct. He never made 
a “deal” to secure office, or found it necessary to sacrifice his individual sense of 
right to the exigencies of the public service. He was by nature a democrat, and 
had full faith in popular feeling as opposed to the aristocracy. His public life 
was devoted to temperance, the cause of peace, the removal of the burdens 
imposed by the corn-laws upon the English working-classes, and to the exten¬ 
sion and protection of popular rights. 

Born in i8ii, the son of a prosperous manufacturer of Rochdale, he was a 
member of the Society of Friends, and consistently advocated its principles 
throughout his life. About 1839 he formed the intimate friendship of Richard 
Cobden and joined in the anti-corn-law agitation, whose final victory was due to 
Bright only in a less degree than to Cobden. He entered Parliament in 1843, 
continued a member for nearly forty years. He had naturally an ungraceful man¬ 
ner and a bad delivery, but his ready speech and terrible earnestness overcame all 
obstacles and made him one of the most effective orators of his time. “ He is 
endowed,” said a London paper during the Reform Bill agitation of 1866, “with a 
voice that can discourse most eloquent music, and with a speech that can equally 
sound the depths of pathos or scale the heights of indignation,” and the Times 
declared that “no orator of the century has stirred the heart of the country in so 
short a time, or so effectually, by his own unaided intellect.” The compelling force 
of his sense of personal honor is well illustrated in his leaving the Gladstone Cabi¬ 
net in 1882 on account of the bombardment of Alexandria, and Mr. Gladstone, 
while radically differing from him, has declared this to be the action of all his life 
most deserving of honor. 

Mr. Bright did not follow Gladstone in his advocacy of home rule for Ire¬ 
land, but believed that policy to be contrary to the interests, not only of England, 
but of Ireland as well. He died in 1889, and perhaps no more fitting eulogium 
could be pronounced upon his life and labors than to say of them, as did the Lon- 

274 





















JOHN BRIGHT. 


275 


don Spectator of his speech on Ireland in 1868, that it “did more to draw the 
noblest men of all parties nearer to each other than lon^»- years of discussion 
had effected before.” • Higher praise could no man have than that he was an 
instrument in bringing together the conflicting opinions of his countrymen ; helping 
right-minded men to see the real truth which so often lies midway between the 
partial views of shallower thinkers. This is the praise that belongs to the great 
Quaker Statesman of England. 



FROM THE SPEECH 

T MUST not be supposed, because I wish 
to represeiii the interest of the many, that 
1 am hostile to the interest of the few. 
But is it not perfectly certain that if the founda¬ 
tion of the most magnificent building be destroyed 
and undermined, the whole fabric itself is in 
danger? Is it not certain, also, that the vast 
body of the people who form the foundation of 
the social fabric, if they are suffering, if they are 
tramided upon, if they are degraded, if they are 
discontented, if “ their hands are against every 
man, and every man’s hands are against them,’’ 
if they do not flourish as well, reasonably speaking, 
as the classes who are above them, because they 
are richer and more powerful,—then are those 
classes as much in danger as the working-classes 
themselves? 

There never was a revolution in any country 
which destroyed the great body of the people. 
There have been convulsions of a most dire char¬ 
acter, which have overturned old-fashioned mon¬ 
archies and have hurled thrones and scepters to 
the dust. There have been revolutions which 
have brought down most powerful aristocracies, 
and swept them from the face of the earth forever ; 
but never was there a revolution yet which de¬ 
stroyed the people. And whatever may come as 
the consequence of the state of things in this 
country, of this we may rest assured : that the 
common people, that the great bulk of our coun¬ 
trymen, will remain and survive the shock, though 
it may be that the Crown, and the aristocracy, and 
the Church may be leveled with the dust, and rise 
no more. In seeking to represent the working- 


ON THE CORN-LAWS. 

' classes, and in standing up for their rights and 
j liberties, I hold that‘I am also defending the rights 
I and liberties of the middle and richer classes of 
society. Doing justice to one class can not inflict 
injustice on any other class, and “justice and 
impartiality to all ’’ is what we all have a right to 
from government. And we have a right to clamor j 
and so long as 1 have breath, so long will I clamor 
against the oppression which I see to exist, and in 
favor of the rights of the great body of the people. 

I have seen the emblems and symbols of afflic¬ 
tion such as I did not expect to see in this city. 
Ay! and I have seen those little children who at 
not a distant day will be the men and women of 
this city of Durham ; I have seen their poor little 
wan faces and anxious looks, as if the furrows of 
old age were coming upon them before they have 
escaped from the age of childhood. I have seen 
all this in this city, and I have seen far more in 
the neighborhood from which 1 have come. You 
have seen, in all probability, people from my 
neighborhood walking your streets and begging 
for that bread which the corn-laws would not 
allow them to earn. 

“Bread-taxed weaver, all can see 
What the tax hath done for thee, 

And thy children, vilely led. 

Singing hymns for shameful bread. 

Till the stones of every street 
Know their little naked feet.’’ 

This is what the corn-law does for the weavers 
of my neighborhood, and for the weavers and 
artisans of yours. 









276 


JOHN BRIGHT. 


FROM THE SPEECH ON INCENDIARISM IN IRELAND (1844). 


HE great and all-present evil of the rural 
districts is this: you have too many 
people for the work to be done. And 
you, the landed proprietors, are alone responsible 
for this state of things; and, to speak honestly, I 
believe many of you know it. I have been charged 
with saying out-of-doors that this House is a club 
of landowners legislating for landowners. If I 
had not said it, the public must long ago have 
found out that fact. My honorable friend, the 
member for Stockport, on one occasion proposed 
that before you passed a law to raise the price 
of bread, you should consider how far you had 
the power to raise the rates of wages. What 
do you say to that? You said that the laborers 
did not understand political economy, or they 
would not apply to Parliament ter raise wages; 
that Parliament could not raise wages. And 
yet the very next thing you did was to pass a 
law to raise the price of produce of your own land, 
at the expense of the very class whose wages you 
confessed your inability to increase. - 

What is the condition of the county of Suffolk? 
Is it not notorious that the rents are as high as 
they were fifty years ago, and probably much 
higher? But the return for the farmer’s capital is 
much lower, and the condition of the laborer is 
very much worse. The farmers are subject to the 
laws of competition, and rents are thereby raised 
from time to time, so as to keep their profits down 
to the lowest point, and the laborers, by the com¬ 
petition amongst them, are reduced to the point 
below which life can not be maintained. Your 
tenants and laborers are being devoured by this 
excessive competition, while you, their magnani¬ 
mous landlords, shelter yourselves from all com¬ 
petition by the corn-law yourselves have 
passed, and make the competition of all other 
classes serve still more to swell your rentals. It 
was for this object the corn-law was passed, and 
) et in the face of your countrymen you dare call 
it a law for the protection of native industry. 

Again, a rural police is kept up by the gentry; 
the farmers say for the sole use of watching game 


and frightening poachers, for which formerly they 
had to pay watchers. Is this true, or is it not ? I 
say, then, you care everything for the rights—and 
for something beyond the rights—of your own 
property, but you are oblivious to its duties. How 
many lives have been sacrificed during the year to 
the childish infatuation of preserving game ? The 
noble lord, the member for North Lancashire, 
could tell of a gamekeeper killed in an affray on 
his father’s estate in that county. For the offense 
one man was hanged, and four men are now on 
their way to penal colonies. Six families are thus 
deprived of husband and father, that this wretched 
system of game-preserving may be continued in a 
country densely peopled as this. The Marquis of 
Normanby’s gamekeeper has been murdered also, 
and the poacher who shot him only escaped death 
by the intervention of the Home Secretary. At 
Godaiming, in Surrey, a gamekeeper has been 
murdered; and at Buckhill, in Buckinghamshire, 
a person has recently been killed in a poaching 
affray. This insane system is the cause of a fearful 
loss of life; it tends to the ruin of your tenantry, 
and is the fruitful cause of the demoralization of 
the peasantry. But you are caring for the rights 
of property; for its most obvious duties you have 
no concern. With such a policy, what can you 
expect but that which is now passing before 
you ? 

It is the remark of a beautiful writer that “ to 
have known nothing but misery is the most por¬ 
tentous condition under which human nature can 
start on its course.” Has your agricultural laborer 
ever known anything but misery ? He is born in 
a miserable hovel, which in mockery is termed a 
house or a home; he is reared in penury; he 
passes a life of hopeless and unrequited toil, and 
the jail or the union house is before him as the 
only asylum on this side of the pauper’s grave. Is 
this the result of your protection to native indus¬ 
try? Have you cared for the laborer till, from a 
home of comfort, he has but a hovel for shelter, 
and have you cherished him into starvation and 
rags? I tell you what your boasted protection is— 
it is a protection of native idleness at the expense 
of the impoverishment of native industry. 








WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE. 

THE “GRAND OLD MAN” OF ENGLISH POLITICS. 

E\V Other men have filled so large a place, both in politics and in 
literature, as the aged man who has for more than half a century 
been a leading figure in the English House of Commons, and has 
found time, amidst the absorbing occupations of a Prime Minister, 
and in the intervals of political campaigns, to write learned books 
upon theology and critical essays on Homeric literature. Few 
men have so well deserved the title “ Statesman in Literature ” ; 
perhaps no other great statesman has chosen the same literary field. 

Gladstone is the fourth son of a wealthy Liverpool merchant, and was born in 
that city in 1809. He distinguished himself at Oxford, where he took the highest 
honors, and where he was the most remarkable graduate of his generation. 

From the university Mr. Gladstone carried away two passions—for Greek lit¬ 
erature and for Christian theology. He entered Parliament almost immediately 
after leaving college, and became a member of Sir Robert Peel’s government, as 
Under Secretary for Colonial Affairs, in 1834. The government being defeated 
the following year, he retired from office, to come in again when Sir Robert 
formed another government in 1841. 

He early distinguished himself by financial skill and knowledge of commercial 
affairs. He supported Sir Robert Peel in the repeal of the corn-laws in 1846, and 
opposed with all his strength the Crimean War and the Chinese War of 1857. 

Gladstone’s gradual change from the Tory to the Liberal party, his fierce 
advocacy of the union of Church and State in his early career, and his later sup¬ 
port of the bill which disestablished the Irish Church, and the change of front which 
made him in his last years a supporter of home rule for Ireland, have success¬ 
ively astonished the world. In each case he was accused of inconstancy, if not of 
treachery. He is one of the few great men who have been able and willing, with 
the progress of the times, to change their minds and to reverse their positions. 

Mr. Gladstone became Prime Minister in 1868, and was one of the most popu¬ 
lar and influential that ever ruled over the English people. For more than thirty 
years he was at the head of the Liberals, while Disraeli led the Conservatives; 
and the contests under these two masters of parliamentary tactics were sometimes 
amongst the most important and exciting in the history of government by assem¬ 
blies. 



277 

























278 


WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE. 


I'he government of Ireland, the extension of the elective franchise, and the 
multitude of questions arising out of the complicated colonial and foreign relations 
of England, furnished the bones of contention for the two parties, causing the two 
great leaders to succeed each other as Prime Minister at almost regular intervals. 

Mr. Gladstone has now retired from official life, but his interest in public 
affairs has not abated, and upon every question of State policy which involves the 
national honor the voice of the old man is still heard, speaking with no uncertain 
sound, arousing the consciences of his countrymen as no other voice can do. 

Mr. Gladstone’s principal books are: “The State, in its Relations with the 
Church,” his “ Chapter of Autobiography,” “Church Principles Considered in Their 
Results,” “Studies on Homer and the Homeric Age,” “The Gods and Men of the 
Heroic Age,” and “ Homeric Synchronisms.” Part of his numerous reviews and 
contributions to periodicals have been collected in seven volumes, under the title 
“Gleanings of Past Years.” Gladstone’s fame, however, will rest, not on his 
theology nor his scholarship, but upon his power as a leader of men. 

He is considered the greatest of British financiers, and as an orator in the 
House of Commons had no equal except John Bright. Of his speech on the 
Budget of i860, the London Quarte 7 dy Review declares: “We find ourselves in 
the enchanted region of pure Gladstonism—that terrible combination of relentless 
logic and dauntless imagination. We soar into the empyrean of finance. Every¬ 
thing is on a colossal scale of grandeur—all-embracing free trade, abysses of deficit, 
and mountains of income tax.” 

Mr. Gladstone’s home at Hawarden Castle is visited by great numbers of 
tourists, and the public interest in his life, in his favorite exercise of chopping down 
trees in his forest, and in everything concerning him or his family, extends not 
only throughout England, but to every corner of the civilized world. 



AXTICIPA'nONS FOR THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND. 
From “Church Principles Considered in Their Results.” 


ND here I close this interview of the relig¬ 
ious position of the Church of England 
under the circumstances of the day 
[1840] : of course not venturing to assume that 
these pages can effect in any degree the purpose 
with which they are written, of contributing to 
her security and peace; but yet full of the most 
cheerful anticipations of her destiny, and without 
the remotest fear either of schism among her chil¬ 
dren, or of any permanent oppression from the 
State, whatever may befall the State herself. She 
has endured for ten years, not only without essen¬ 
tial injury, but with a decided and progressive 
growth in her general influence as well as in her 


individual vigor, the ordeal of public discussion, 
and the brunt of many hostile attacks, in a time 
of great agitation and disejuietude, and of im¬ 
mense political changes. There vas a period 
when her children felt no serious alarms for her 
safety : and then she was in serious peril. Of 
late their apprehensions have been violently and 
constantly excited ; but her dangers have dimin¬ 
ished : so poor a thing, at best, is human solici¬ 
tude. Yes, if we may put any trust in the signs 
that are within her and upon her—if we may at 
all rely upon the results of the patient and delib¬ 
erate thought of many minds, upon the consent¬ 
ing testimony of foes and friends—the hand of her 







WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE. 


279 


Lord is over her for good, to make her more and 
more a temple of His spirit and an organ of His 
will. Surely He will breathe into her anew, and 
more and more, the breath of life, and will raise 
up in her abundantly power in the midst of weak¬ 
ness, and the sense of power in the midst of the 
sense of weakness—of weakness in so far as she 
is an earthen vessel ; of power inasmuch as He is 


a heavenly treasure abiding therein. The might 
that none can withstand, the wisdom that none 
can pierce, the love that none can fathom, the 
revelation of truth whose light faileth not, the 
promise that never can be broken—those are the 
pillars of her strength whereon she rests, we may 
trust, not more conspicuous by their height than 
secure upon their deep foundations. 



Gladstone’s Study. 


SOME AFTERTHOUGHTS. 


From “A Chapter 

BELIEVE that the foregoing passages de¬ 
scribe fairly, if succinctly, the main 
projwsitions of “The State in its Rela¬ 
tions with the Church,” so far as the book bears 
upon the present controversy. They bound me 
hand and foot; they hemmed me in on every side. 
My opinion of the Established Church of Ireland 
is now the direct opposite of what it was then. I 
then thought it reconcilable with civil and 
national justice ; I now think the maintenance of 
it grossly unjust. I then thought its action was 


OF Autobiography.” 

favorable to the interests of the religion which it 
teaches ; I now believe it to be opposed to them. 

An establishment that does its work in much, 
and has the hope and likelihood of doing it in 
more; an establishment that has a broad and liv¬ 
ing way open to it into the hearts of the people ; 
an establishment that can command the services 
of the present by the recollections and traditions 
of a far-reaching past; an establishment able to 
appeal to the active zeal of the greater portion of 









































WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE. 


280 

the people and to the respect or scruples of almost 
the whole; whose children dwell chiefly on her 
actual living work and service, and whose adver¬ 
saries—if she have them—are in the main con¬ 
tent to believe that there will be a future for them 
and their opinion—such an establishment should 
surely be maintained. 

But an establishment that neither does nor has 
the hope of doing work except for a few—and 
those few the portion of the community whose 
claim to public aid is the smallest of all; an estab¬ 
lishment severed from the mass of, the people by 
an impassable gulf, and by a wall of brass; an 


AN ESTIMATE 
From “Gleanings 

HE truth is that Macaulay was not only 
accustomed, like many more of us, to go 
out hobby-riding, but from the portentous 
vigor of the animal he mounted was liable more 
than the most of us to be run away with. His 
merit is that he could keep his seat in the 
wildest steeplechase; but as the object in view is 
arbitrarily chosen, so it is reached by cutting up 
the fields, spoiling the crops, and spoiling or 
breaking down the fences needful to secure for 
labor its profit, and to man at large the full enjoy¬ 
ment of the fruits of the earth. Such is the over- 
powdering glow of color, such is the fascination of 
the grouping in the first sketches which he draws, 
that w'hen he has grown hot upon his w'ork he 
seems to lose all sense of the restraints of fact and 
the law's of moderation; he vents the strangest 
paradoxes, sets up the most violent caricatures, 
and handles the false weight and measure as effect¬ 
ively as if he did it knowingly. A man so able 
and so upright is never indeed w’holly wrong. He 
never for a moment consciously pursues anything 
but the truth. But truth depends, above all, on 
proportion and relation. The preterhuman vivid¬ 
ness w'ith which Macaulay sees his object, abso¬ 
lutely casts a shadow' upon w'hat lies around ; he 
loses his perspective ; and imagination, impelled 
headlong by the strong consciousness of honesty 
in purpose, achieves the w'ork of fraud. All things 


establishment whose good offices, could she offer 
them, would be intercepted by a long, unbroken 
chain of painful and shameful recollections; an 
establishment leaning for support upon the extrane¬ 
ous aid of a State, which becomes discredited with 
the people by the very act of lending it—such 
an establishment will do well for its own sake, and 
for the sake of its creed, to divest itself as soon as 
may be of gauds and trappings, and to commence 
a new career, in which, renouncing at once the 
credit and the discredit of the civil sanction, it 
sl"^!! seek its strength from within, and put a fear¬ 
less trust in the message that it bears. 


)F MACAULAY. 

OF Past Years.” 

for him stand in violent contrast to one another. 
For the shadow’s, the gradations, the middle and 
transition touches, which make up the bulk of 
human life, character, and action, he has neither 
eye nor taste. They are not taken account of in 
his practice, and they at length die away with the 
ranges of his vision. 

In Macaulay all history is scenic ; and philos¬ 
ophy he scarcely seems to touch, except on the 
outer side, where it opens into action. Not only 
does he habitually present facts in forms of beauty, 
but the fashioning of the form predominates over, 
and is injurious to, the absolute and balanced 
presentation of the subject. Macaulay w’as a 
master in execution, rather than in w’hat painting 
or music terms expression. He did not fetch 
from the depths, nor soar to the heights; but his 
pow’er upon the surface w’as rare and marvelous, 
and it is upon the surface that an ordinary life is 
passed and that its imagery is found. He min¬ 
gled, then, like Homer, the functions of the poet 
and the chronicler: but w’hat Homer did was due 
to his time; w'hat Macaulay did, to his tempera¬ 
ment. 

The “History” of Macaulay, w'hatever else it 
may be, is the w'ork not of a journeyman but of a 
great artist, and a great artist who lavishly bestow'ed 
upon it all his powders. Such a work, once com¬ 
mitted to the press, can hardly die. It is not be- 








WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE. 


281 


cause it has been translated into a crowd of lan¬ 
guages, nor because it has been sold in hundreds 
of thousands, that we believe it will live ; but be¬ 
cause, however open it may be to criticism, it has 
in it the character of a true and very high work of 
art. 

Whether he will subsist as a standard and su¬ 
preme authority is another question. Wherever 
and whenever read, he will be read with fascina¬ 
tion, with delight, with wonder. And with copi¬ 
ous instruction too ; but also with copious reserve. 


problems. Yet they will obtain, from his marked 
and telling points of view, great aid in solving 
them. • We sometimes fancy that ere long there 
will be editions of his works in which his readers 
may be saved from pitfalls by brief, respectful, and 
judicious commentary ; and that his great achieve¬ 
ments may be at once commemorated and cor¬ 
rected by men of slower pace, of drier light, and 
of more tranquil, broad-set, and comprehensive 
judgment. For his works are in many respects 
among the prodigies of literature j in some, they 



Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone, their Children and Grandchildren. 


with questioning scrutiny, with liberty to reject, 
and with much exercise of that liberty. The con¬ 
temporary mind may in rare cases be taken by 
storm ; but posterity, never. The tribunal of the 
present is accessible to influence; that of the 
future is incorrupt. The coming generations will 
not give Macaulay up, but they will probably 
attach much less value than we have done to his 
ipse dixit. They will hardly accept from him his 
net solutions of literary, and still less of historic. 


have never been surpassed. As lights that have 
shone through the whole universe of letters, they 
have made their title to a place in the solid firma¬ 
ment of fame. But the tree is greater and better 
than its fruit; and greater and better yet than the 
works themselves are the lofty aims and concep¬ 
tions, the large heart, the independent, manful 
mind, the pure and noble career, which in this 
biography have disclosed to us the true figure of 
the man who wrote them. 









JUSTIN McCarthy. 

THE IRISH PATRIOT AND MAN OF LETTERS. 

N the great conflicts in which the government or misgovernment 
of Ireland has involved every recent British administration, Justin 
McCarthy has, for twenty years, taken an important part. He 
had been the champion of his country long before he entered Par¬ 
liament, and as an editor, and in lectures and speeches both in the 
United Kingdom and in America, he had distinguished himself not 
only by his devotion to the cause of Ireland, but by the intelligence, 
force, and, what was too rare among the Irish leaders, the good judgment which 
he displayed. 

Born in the city of Cork in 1830, the young McCarthy early entered journal¬ 
ism in his native place, but afterward went to Liverpool, and in i860 was attached 
as parliamentary reporter to the staff of the London Morning Star, of which, from 
1864 to 1866, he was editor. He spent a number of years in America, and,- return¬ 
ing to his own country, was, in 1879, returned to Parliament from the Irish county 
of Longford. He became one of the trusted lieutenants of Charles Stewart Parnell, 
and after the decline from power and the death of that great leader, he occupied a 
sort of middle position between the two hostile factions into which the Irish party 
separated, and probably did as much as any one man to bring them together. 
McCarthy has written a number of novels, among which are “ Paul Mesie,” 
“ My Enemy’s Daughter,” “ Lady Judith,” “ Dear Lady Disdain,” “ Miss Misan¬ 
thrope,” “The Comet of a Season,” and “ Camiola.” He has also published a 
large number of essays on political and literary subjects, one volume of which bears 
the title, “Con Amore.” It is in his historical writings, however, that he chiefly 
excels. A number of these essays are included in the volume called “ The Epoch 
of Reform,” and he has published a “ History of Ireland,” but the work upon 
which his fame seems likely chiefly to rest is his “History of Our Own Times, from 
the Accession of Queen Victoria,” which has recently been brought down from 
1880 to the present time. This is a most admirable account of the longest reign in 
English history, and excels in the lively pictures it presents of the marvelous 
progress which the great British empire has made within the most wonderful 
sixty years of modern times. There is probably no other book which tells the 
story so completely or so well, or which better deserves the wide circle of readers 
it has had. 



282 































JUSTIN MCCARTHY. 


283 


THE WITHDRAWAL FROM CABUL. 


From “ A History 
HE withdrawal from Cabiil began. It was 
the heart of a cruel winter. The English 
had to make their way through the awful 
pass of Koord Cabul. This stupendous gorge 
runs for some five miles between mountain ranges 
so narrow, lofty, and grim, that in the winter 
season the rays of the sun can hardly pierce its 
darkness even at the noontide. Down the center 
dashed a precipitous mountain torrent, so fiercely 
that the stern frost of that terrible time could not 
stay its course. The snow lay in masses on the 
ground, the rocks and stones that raised their 
heads above the snow in the way of the unfor¬ 
tunate travelers were slippery with frost. Soon 
the white snow began to be stained and splashed 
with blood. Fearful as this Koord Cabul Pass 
was, it was only a degree worse than the road 
which for two whole days the English had to 
traverse to reach it. The army which set out 
from Cabul numbered more than four thousand 
fighting men, of whom Europeans formed but a 
small proportion; and some twelve thousand 
camp-followers of all kinds. There were also 
many women and children. .... 

The winter journey would have been cruel and 
dangerous enough in time of peace; but this 
journey had to be accomplished in the midst of 
something far worse than common war. At every 
step of the road, every opening of the rocks, the 
unhappy crowd of confused and heterogeneous 
fugitives were beset by bands of savage fanatics, 
who with their long guns and long knives were 
murdering all they could reach. It was all the 
way a confused constant battle against a guerilla 
enemy of the most furious and merciless temper, 
who were perfectly familiar with the ground, and 
could rush forward and retire exactly as suited 
their tactics. The English soldiers, weary, weak, 
and crippled by frost, could make but a poor 
fight against the savage Afghans. “It was no 
longer,” says Sir J. W. Kaye, “a retreating 
army; it w'as a rabble in chaotic fight.” Men, 
women, and children; horses, ponies, camels; the 
wounded, the dying, the dead ; all crowded to¬ 
gether in almost inextricable confusion among the 


K Our Own Ti.mes.” 

snow and amid the relentless enemies. “The 
massacre,” to quote again from Sir J. W. Kaye, 
“ was fearful in this Koord Cabul Pass. Three 
thousand men are said to have fallen under the 
fire of the enemy, or to have dropped down para- 
l)zed and exhausted to be slaughtered by the 
Afghan knives. And amidst these fearful scenes 
of carnage, through a shower of matchlock balls, 
rode English ladies on horseback or in camel 
panniers, sometimes vainly endeavoring to keep 
their children beneath their eyes, and losing them 
in the confusion and bewilderment of the deso¬ 
lating march. ” , 

Was it for this, then, that our troops had been 
induced to capitulate ? Was this the safe-conduct 
which the Afghan chiefs had promised in return 
for their accepting the ignominious conditions 
imposed on them? Some of the chiefs did exert 
themselves to the utmost to protect the unfortunate 
English. It is not certain what the real wish of 
Akbar Khan may have been. He protested that 
he had no power to restrain the hordes of fanatical 
Ghilzyes, whose own immediate chiefs had not 
authority enough to keep them from murdering 
the English whenever they got a chance. The 
force of some few hundred horsemen whom Akbar 
Khan had with him was utterly incapable, he 
declared, of maintaining order among such a mass 
of infuriated and lawless savages. Akbar Khan 
constantly appeared on the scene during this 
journey of terror. At every opening or break of 
the long straggling flight he and his little band of 
followers showed themselves on the horizon : try¬ 
ing still to protect the English from utter ruin, as 
he declared ; come to gloat over their misery and 
to see that it was surely accomplished, some of the 
unhappy English were ready to believe. Yet his 
presence was something that seemed to give a 
hope of protection. 

Akbar Khan at length startled the English by 
a proposal that the women and children who were 
with the army should be handed over to his 
custody, to be conveyed by him in safety to 
Peshawur. Tliere was nothing better to be done. 
The only modification of his request, or com- 





284 


JUSTIN MCCARTHY. 


mand, that could be obtained, was that the hus¬ 
bands of the married ladies should accompany 
their wives. With this agreement the women 
and children were handed over to the care of this 
dreaded enemy, and Lady Macnaghten had to 
undergo the agony of a personal interview with 
the man whose own hand had killed her husband. 
Akbar Khan was kindly in his language, and de¬ 
clared to the unhappy widow that he would give 
his right arm to undo, if it were possible, the deed 
that he had done. 

The women and children, and the married men 
whose wives were among this party, were taken 
from the unfortunate army and placed under the 
care of Akbar Khan. As events turned out, it was 
the best thing that could be done. Not one of 
these women and children could have lived 
through the horrors of the journey which lay be¬ 
fore the remnant of what had once been a British 
force. The march was resumed ; new horrors set 
in; new heaps of corpses stained the snow; and 
then Akbar Khan presented himself, with a fresh 
proposition. In the treaty made at Cabul between 
the English authorities and the Afghan chiefs 
there was an article which stipulated that “the 
English force at Jellalabad shall march for Pesha- 
wur before the Cabul army arrives, and shall not 
delay on the road.” Akbar Khan was especially 
anxious to get rid of the little army at Jellalabad 
at the near end of the Kyber Pass. He desired 
above all things that it should be on the march 
home to India; either that it might be out of his 
way, or that he might have a chance of destroying 
it on its way. It was in great measure as a secur¬ 
ity for its moving that he desired to have the 
women and children under his care. It is not 
likely that he meant any harm to the women and 
children ; it must be remembered that his father 
and many of the women of his family were under 
the control of the British Government as prison¬ 
ers in Hindostan. But he fancied that if he had 
the English women in his hands the army at Jella¬ 
labad could not refuse to obey the conditions set 
down in the article of the treaty. Now that he had 


the women in his power, however, he demanded 
other guarantees, with openly acknowledged 
purpose of keeping these latter until Jellalabad 
should have been evacuated. He demanded that 
General Elphenstone, the commander, with his 
second in command, and also one other officer, 
should hand themselves over to him as hostages. 
He promised if this were done to exert himself 
more than before to restrain the fanatical tribes, 
and also to provide the army in the Koord Cabul 
Pass with provisions. There was nothing for it 
but to submit; and the English general himself 
became, with the women and children, a captive 
in the hands of the inexorable enemy. 

Then the march of the army, without a general, 
went on again. Soon it became the story of a 
general without an army ; before long there was 
neither general nor army. It is idle to lengthen 
a tale of mere horrors. The struggling remnant 
of an army entered the Jugdulluk Pass, a dark, 
steep, narrow, ascending path between crags. 
The miserable toilers found that the fanatical im¬ 
placable tribes had barricaded the pass. All was 
over. The army of Cabul was finally extinguished 
in that barricaded pass. It was a trap ; the Brit¬ 
ish were taken in it. A few mere fugitives es¬ 
caped from the scene of actual slaughter, and were 
on the road to Jellalabad, where Sale and his little 
army were holding their own. When they were 
within sixteen miles of Jellalabad the number was 
reduced to six. Of these six, five were killed by 
straggling marauders on the way. One man alone 
reached Jellalabad to tell the tale. Literally one 
man. Dr. Brydon, came to Jellalabad out of a 
moving host which had numbered in all some six¬ 
teen thousand when it set out on its march. The 
curious eye will search through history or fiction 
in vain for any picture more thrilling with the sug¬ 
gestions of an awful catastrophe than that of this 
solitary survivor, faint and reeling on his jaded 
horse, as he appeared under the walls of Jellala¬ 
bad, to bear the tidings of our Thermopylae of 
pain and shame. 










































VOLUME II. 


Literature of America 


PART I. 
“ 2 . 
“ 3 - 

“ 4 - 

“ 5 - 

“ 6 . 

“ 7 - 

“ 8 . 

“ ' 9 - 


Great Poets of America. 

Five Popular Western Poets. 

Our Most Noted Novelists. 

Famous Women Novelists. 

Representative Women Poets of America. 
Distinguished Essayists and Literary Critics. 
Great American Historians and Biographers. 
Our National Humorists. 

Popular Writers for Young People. 







ACKNOWLEDGMENTS. 


Our obligation to the following publishers is respectfullj’ and gratefully acknowledged, since, without 
the courtesies and assistance of these publishers and a number of the living authors, it would have been 
impossible to issue this volume. 

Copyright selections from the following authors are used by the permission of and special arrangement 
with MESSRS. HOUGIirON, MIFFLIN CO., their authorized publishers Ralph Waldo Emerson, 
Henry W. Longfellow, Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Rus.sell Lowell, Bret Harte, Charles Egbert Craddock 
(Miss Murfree), Alice Cary, Phoebe Cary, Charles Dudley Warner, E. C. Stedman, James Parton, and Sarah 
Jane Lippincott. 

TO THE CENTURY CO., we are indebted for .selections from Richard Watson Gilder and James 
Whitcomb Riley. 

TO CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, for extracts from Eugene Field. 

TO HARPER <t’ BROTHERS, for selections from Will Carleton, General Lew Wallace, W. D. 
Howells, and John L. Motle}’. 

TO ROBERIS BROTHERS, for selections from Edward Everett Hale, Helen Hunt Jackson, 
Louise Chandler Moulton and Louisa .M. Alcott. 

TO ORANGE, JUDD dt CO., for extracts from Edward Eggleston. 

TO DODD, MEAD J’ CO., for selections from Marion Harland (.Mrs. Terhune) and Amelia E. Barr. 

TO D. APPLETON & CO., for William Cullen Bryant. 

TO FUNK & WAGNALLS, for Josiah Allen’s Wife (Miss Holley). 

TO LEE A' SHEPARD, for Yawcob Strauss (Charles Pollen Adams) and Oliver Optic (William T. 
Adams). 

TO J. B. LIPPINCOTT CO., for Bill Nye (Edgar Wilson Nye). 

TO GEORGE ROUT LEDGE A SONS, for Uncle Remus (Joel C. Harris). 

TO PORTER COATES, for Edward Ellis and Horatio Alger. 

TO T. B. PETERSON d- BROS., for F. H. Burnett. 

Besides the above, we are under special obligation to a number of authors, who kindly furnished, in 
answer to our request, selections which they considered representative of their writings. 


■T5nin)BnjnTiTmTmTniigjTi;^ni^i](ii]jTOTi]iTp^mjnic^](ii5jjjT^ 

M' w 4:,4fCM<14< ^ 

^ '♦ '>■ ♦''4^'#''♦" '41 .XXX' 4 ' X-XnXX 

^it'(finilfiiiiiTiiiiiTiii»miiltTniiitlhhtiiiilTiiii1»himliilTiiih^iillTiiirmiinTiMii^^^^ 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

THE POET OF NATURE. 

T is said that “gonitis always manifests itself before its possessor 
reaches manhood.” Perhaps in no case is this more true than in 
that of the poet, and William Cullen Bryant was no exception to 
the general rule. The poetical fancy was early displayed in him. 
He began to write verses at nine, and at ten composed a little 
})oem to be spoken at a public school, which was published in a 
new"S[)aper. At fourteen a collection of his poems was published in 12 mo. form 
by E. G. House of Boston. Strange to say the longest one of these, entitled 
“The Embargo” was political in its character setting forth his reflections on the 
Anti-Jeffersonian Federalism prevalent in NeAV England at that time. But it 
is said that never after that effort did the poet employ his muse upon the politics 
of the day, though the general topics of liberty and independence have given occa¬ 
sion to some of his finest efforts. Bryant was a great lover of nature. In the 
Juvenile Collection above referred to were published an “Ode to Connecticut 
River” and also the lines entitled “ Drought” which show the characteristic ob¬ 
servation as well as the style in which his youthful muse found expression. It 
was written July, 1807 , when the author was thirteen years of age, and will be found 
among the succeeding selections. 

“ Thanatopsis,” one of his most popular poems, (though he himself marked it 
low) was written when the poet was but little more than eighteen years of age. This 
production is called the beginning of American poetry. 

William Cullen Bryant was born at Cummington, Hampshire Co., Mass., 
November 3 rd, 1784 . His father was a physician, and a man of literary culture 
who encouraged his son’s early ability, and taught him the value of correctness and 
compression, and enabled him to distinguish between true poetic enthusiasm and the 
bombast into which young poets are apt to fall. The feeling and reverence with 
which Bryant cherished the memory of his father whose life was 

“ Marked with some act of goodne.ss every day,” 

is touchingly alluded to in several of his poems and directly spoken of with pathetic 
eloquence in the “ Hymn to Death” written in 1825 : 

Alas! I little thought that the stern power 
Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus 

287 














288 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


Before the strain was ended. It must cease— 

For he is in his grave who taught my youth 
The art of verse, and in the bud of life 
Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off 
Untimely ! when thy reason in its strength, 

Ripened by years of toil and studious search 
And watch of Nature’s silent lessons, taught 
Thy hand to practise best the lenient art 
To which thou gavest thy laborious days, 

And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth 
Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes, 

And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill 
Delayed their death-hour, shuddered^and turned pale 
When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thju 
Shalt not, as wont, o’erlook, is all I have 
To offer at thy grave—this—and the hope 
To copy thy example. 

Bryant was educated at Williams College, but left with an honorable discharge 
before graduation to take up the study of law, which he practiced one year at Plain- 
field and nine years at Great Bari-ington, hut in 1825 he abandoned law for litera¬ 
ture, and removed to New York wherein 1820 he began to edit the “ Evening 
Post,” which position he continued to occu}n’ from that time until the day of his 
death. William Cullen Bryant and the “ Evening Post” were almost as cons])icuous 
and permanent features of the city as the Battery and Trinity Church. 

In 1821 Mr. Bryant married Frances Fairchild, the loveliness of whose charac¬ 
ter is hinted in some of his sweetest })roductions. The one beginning 

*■ 0 fairest of the rural maids,” 

was written some years before their marriage; and “The Future Life,” one of the 
noblest and most pathetic of his poems, is addressed to her :— 

“ In meadows fanned by Heaven’s life-breathing wind, 

In the resplendence of that glorious sphere 
And larger movements of the unfettered mind. 

Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here? 

“ Will not thy own meek heart demand me there,— 

That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given? 

My name on earth was ever in thy prayer. 

And wilt thou never utter it in heaven ? 

Among his best-known poems are “A Forest Hymn,” “The Death of the 
Flowers,” “ Lines to a Waterfowl,” and “ The Planting of the Apple-Tree.” One 
of the greatest of his works, though not among the most popular, is his translation 
of Homer, which he completed when seventy-seven yetirs of age. 

Bryant had a marvellous memory. His familiarity with the English poets was 


WILLIAM CULLEX BRYANT. 


289 


such that when at sea, where lie was always too ill to read much, he would heguile 
the time by reciting page after jiage from favorite authors. However long the 
voyage, he never exhausted his resources. “ I once proposed,” says a friend, “ to 
send for a copy of a magazine in which a new poem of his was announced to ajipear. 
^ You need not send for it,’ said he, ‘I can give it to you.’ ‘Then you have a cofiy 
with you?’ said I. ‘ No,’ he replied, ‘ but I can recall it,’ and thereupon proceeded 
immediately to write it out. I congratulated him upon having such a faithfid 
memory. ‘ If allowed a little time,’ he replied, ‘ I could recall every line of poetry 
I have ever written.’ ” 

His tenderness of the feelings of others, and his earnest desire always to avoid the 
giving of unnecessary pain, were very marked. “Soon after I began to do the 
duties of litei-ary editor,” writes an associate, “Mr. Bryant, who was reading a 
review of a little book of wretchedly halting verse, said to me : ‘ I wish you would 
deal very gently with poets, especially the weaker ones.’ ” 

Bryant was a man of very striking appearance, especially in age. “ It is a fine 
sight,” says one writer, “to see a man full of years, clear in mind, sober in judg¬ 
ment, refined in taste, and handsome in person.I remember once to have 

been at a lecture where Mr. Bryant sat several seats in front of me, and his finely- 
sized head was especially noticeable .... The observer of Bryant’s capacious 
skull and most refined expression of face cannot fail to read therein the history of 
a noble manhood.” 

The grand old veteran of verse died in New York in 1878 at the age of eighty- 
four, universally known and honored. He was in his sixth year when George 
Washington died, and lived under the administration of twenty presidents and had 
seen his own writings in print for seventy years. During this long life—though editor 
for fifty years of a political daily paper, and continually before the public—he had 
kept his reputation unspotted from the world, as if he had, throughout the decades, 
continually before his mind the admonition of the closing lines of “ Thanatopsis” 
wiitten by himself seventy years before. 





290 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


THANATOPSIS* 

The following production is called the beginning of American poetry. 

That a young man not yet 19 should have produced a poem so lofty in conception, so full of chaste lan¬ 
guage and delicate and striking imagery, and, above all, so pervaded by a noble and cheerful religious 
philosophy, may well be regarded as one of the most remarkable examples of early maturity in literary 
history. 


0 him who, in the love of Nature, holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she 
speaks 

A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And healing syn)pathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall. 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
iNIake thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;— 

Go forth, under the ojien sky. and list 
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around— 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air— 
Comes a still voice.—Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground. 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourish’d thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 

And, lost each human trace, .surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements. 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude .swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 
Yet not to thine eternal resting-}dace 
Shalt thou retire alone,—nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world.—with kings. 
The powerful of the earth—the wi.se, the good. 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. 

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribb’d and ancient as the sun,—the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 

The venerable woods,—rivers that move 


In majesty, and the complaining brooks 

That make the meadows green ; and, pour’d round all, 

Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,— 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun. 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 

Through tlie still lajise of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumbec in its bosom. Take the winsjs 
Of morning, traver.se Barca’s desert sands. 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save its own dashings,—yet—the dead are there, 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep,—the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that ’oreathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
Ilis favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and .shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glides away, the sons of men— 

The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and maid. 

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man—• 
Shall, one by one, be gather’d to thy side. 

By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live that, w'hen thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death. 

Thou go not, like the (juarry-slave at night. 

Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustain’d and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him. and lies down to pleasant dreams. 



WAITING BY THE GATE. 



ESIDES the mas.sive gateway built up ir 
years gone by. 

Upon whose top the clouds in eternal 
shadow lie. 


While streams the evening sunshine on the quiet 
wood and lea, 

I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for 
me. 


*The following copyrighted selections from Wm. Cullen Bryant are inserted by permission of D. Appleton & Co., the pub¬ 
lishers of his works. 








WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


291 


The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze’s flight, 

A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night; 

I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant 
more, 

And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of 
day is o’er. 

Behold the portals open and o’er the threshold, now. 

There steps a wearied one with pale and furrowed 
brow; 

His count of years is full, his alloted task is wrought; 

He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not. 

In sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets the 
hour 

Of human strength and action, man's courage and 
his power. 

I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the 

O 

golden day. 

And as I look and listen the sadness wears away. 

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing throws 

A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes ; 

A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, 

Moves wonderfully away from amid the young and 
fair. 

Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly decays ! 

Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens as we 
gaze! 

Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air 

Scatters a moment’s sweetness and flies we know not 
where. 

I grieve for life’s bright promise, just shown and 
then withdrawn; 


But still the sun shines round me; the evening birds 
sing on; 

And I again am soothed, and beside the ancient gate, 

In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and 
wait. 

Once more the gates are opened, an infant group go 
out. 

The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the 
sprightly shout. 

Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward 
strews 

Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that 
blows ! 

So from every region, so enter side by side. 

The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of 
pride. 

Steps of earth’s greatest, mightiest, between those 
pillars gray, 

And prints of little feet, that mark the dust away. 

And some approach the threshold whose looks are 
blank with fear. 

And some whose temples brighten with joy are draw¬ 
ing near. 

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious 
eye 

Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die. 

I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, within my 
• heart, 

Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to 
depart; 

And, in the sunshine streaming of quiet wood and lea, 

I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me. 


“BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.” 


DEE^M not they are blest alone 

Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; 
The Power who pities man has shown 
A blessing for the eyes that weep. 

The light of .smiles shall fill again 
The lids that overflow with tears; 

And weary hours of woe and pain 
Are promises of happier years. 

There is a day of sunny rest 

For every dark and troubled night; 

And grief may bide an evening guest. 

But joy shall come with early light. 


And thou, who, o’er thy friend’s low bier, 
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, 

Hope that a brighter, happier sphere 
Will give him to thy arms again. 

Nor let the good man’s trust depart. 

Though life its common gifts deny,— 
Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, 
And spurned of men, he goes to die. 

For God hath marked each sorrowing day, 
And numbered every secret tear. 

And heaven’s long age of bliss shall pay 
For all his children suffer here. 







293 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


THE ANTIQUITY OF FKEEDOM. 


ERE are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled 
pines, 

That stream with gray-green mosses; here 
the ground 

Was never touch’d by spade, and flowers 
spring up 

Unsown, and die ungather’d. It is sweet 

To linger here, among the flitting birds 

And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks and winds 

That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass 

A fragrance from the cedars thickly set 

With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades— 

Peaceful, unpriined, immeasurably old— 

My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, 

Back to the earliest days of Liberty. 

O Freedom ! thou art not, as poets dream, 

A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs. 

And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 
With which the Roman master crown’d his slave, 
When he took off the gyves. A bearded man. 
Arm’d to the teeth, art thou: one mailed hand 
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow. 
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarr’d 
With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs 
Are strong and struggling. Power at thee has 
launch’d 

His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee; 

They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven. 
Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, 

And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, 

Have forged thy chain ; yet while he deems thee 
bound, 

The links are shiver’d, and the prison walls 
Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth, 

As springs the flame above a burning pile, 

And shoutest to the nations, who return 
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. 

Thy birth-right was not given by human hands: 


Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, 
While yet our race was few, thou sat’st with him, 

To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars. 

And teach the reed to utter simple airs, 
d'hou by bis side, amid the tangled wood. 

Didst war upon the panther and the wolf. 

His only foes: and thou with him didst draw 
The earliest furrows on the mountain side, 

Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself, 

The enemy, although of reverend look. 

Hoary with many years, and far obey’d. 

Is later born than thou ; and as he meets 
The grave defiance of thine elder eye. 

The usurper trembles in Ins fastne.sses. 

Thou shah wax stronger with the lapse of years, 
But he shall fade into a feebler age; 

Feebler, yet subtler; he shall weave his snares. 
And spring them on thy <*arele.ss steps, and clap 
His wither’d hands, and from their ambirsh call 
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send 
Quaint maskers, foims of fair and gallant mien. 

To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful w'ords 
To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth, 
Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on 
thread. 

That grow’ to fetters; or bind down thy arms 
With chains conceal’d in chaplets. Oh ! not yet 
MaySt thou unbrace tby corslet, nor lay by 
Thy sword, nor yet, 0 Freedom ! close thy lids 
In slum)jer; for thine enemy never sleeps. 

And thou must w'atch and combat, till the day 
Of the new Earth and Heaven. But w’ouldst thou rest 
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men. 

These old and friendly solitudes invite 
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees 
Were young upon the unviolated earth. 

And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, 

Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. 



TO A WATERFOWL. 


H HITHER, ’midst falling dew. 

While glow the heavens with the last steps 

Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou 
pursue 

Thy solitary way ? 


Vainly the fowler’s eye 

IMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly limn’d upon the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek’st thou the plashy brink 
Of w’eedy lake, or marge of river wide. 


Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
On the chafed ocean side ? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,— 

The desert and illimitable air,— 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fann’d. 

At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. 
Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end; 

Soon sh^lt thou find a summer home, and rest. 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, 
Soon, o’er thy shelter’d nest. 











WILLIAM C’ULLEX BRYANT. 


293 


Thou’rt gone ; the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallow’d up thy form; yet on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
And shall not soon de|)art. 


He who, from zone to zone, 

(xuides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that 1 must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 


KOBERT OF LINCOLN. 


EIIRILY swinging on hrier and weed. 
Near to the nest of his little dame. 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink; 

Snug and safe is that nest of ours. 

Hidden among the summer flowers. 

Chee, chee, chee. 



Si.v white eggs on a bed of hay. 
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight 
There as the mother sits all day, 

Robert is singing with all his might: 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Nice good wife, that never goes out. 
Keeping house while I frolic about. 
Chee, chee, chee. 


Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, 

Wearing a bright black wedding coat; 
White are his shoulders and wdiite his crest, 
Hear him call in his merry note: 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Look what a nice new coat is mine, 

Sure there was never a bird so fine. 

Chee, chee, chee. 


Soon as the little ones chip the shell 
Six wide mouths are open for food; 
Robert of Jancoln bestirs him well, 
Gathering seed for the hungry brood. 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
Chee, chee, chee. 


Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife. 

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
Pa&sing at home a patient life. 

Broods in the grass while her husband sings, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers, while 1 am here. 

Chee, chee, chee. 


Robert of Lincoln at length is made 
Sober with work and silent with care; 
Oflp is his holiday garment laid. 

Half-forgot ten that merry air, 
Bob-o’-link, bob-o’ link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 
Chee, chee, chee. 


Modest and shy as a nun is she. 

One wesik chirp is her only note. 
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 
Pouring boasts fntm his little throat: 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

Never was I afraid of man ; 

Catch me, cowardly knaves if you can. 
Chee, chee, chee. 


Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; 

Fun and frolic no more he knows; 
Robert of Lincoln’s a humdrum crone; 
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: 
Bob-o’-liuk, bob-o’-link, 

Spink, spank, spink ; 

When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 

Chee, chee, chee. 


DROUGHT. 


LUNGFID amid the limpid waters. 

Or the cooling shade beneath, 

Let me fly the scorching sunbeams. 
And the southwind’s sickly breath! 


Sirius burns the parching meadows. 
Flames upon the embrowning hill. 
Dries the foliage of the forest. 

And evaporates the rill. 




















294 


WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 


Scarce is seen the lonely floweret, 
Save amid the embowering wood ; 
O’er the prospect dim and dreary, 
Drought presides in sullen mood ! 

Murky vapours hung in ether. 
Wrap in gloom, the sky serene; 


Nature pants distressful—silence 
lleigns o’er all the sultry scene. 

Then amid the limpid waters, 

Or beneath the cooUng shade. 

Let me shun the scorching sunbeams 
And the sickly breeze evade. 


THE PAST. 

No poet, perhaps, in the world is so exquisite in rhythm, or classically pure and accurate in language, so 
appropriate in diction, phrase or metaphor as Bryant. 

He dips his pen in words as an inspired painter his pencil in colors. The following poem is a fair specimen 
of his, deep vein in his chosen serious themes. Pathos is pre-eminently his endowment but the tinge of 
melancholy in his treatment is alw'ays pleasing. 


IIOU unrelenting Past! 

Strong are the barriers round thy dark 
domain. 

And fetters, sure and fast. 

Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 

Far in thy realm withdrawn 
Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, 

And glorious ages gone 
Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. 

Childhood, with all its mirth, 

Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground. 

And, last, Man’s Life on earth. 

Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. 

Thou hast my better years. 

Thou hast my earlier friends—the good—the kind. 

Yielded to thee with tears,— 

The venerable form—the exalted mind. 

My spirit yearns to bring 
The lost ones back ;—yearns with desire intense. 

And struggles hard to wring 
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. 

In vain :—thy gates deny 
All passage save to those who hence depart; 

Nor to the streaming eye 
Thou giv’st them back,—nor to the broken heart. 

In thy abysses hide 

Deauty and excellence unknown :—to thee 

Earth’s wonder and her pride 
Are gather’d, as the waters to the sea; 


Labors of good to man, 

Unpublish’d charity, unbroken faith,— 

Love, that midst grief began. 

And grew with years, and falter’d not in death. 

Full many a mighty name 
Lurks in thy depths, unutter’d, unrevered; 

With thee are silent fiime. 

Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear’d. 

Thine for a space are they:— 

Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last; 

Thy gates shall yet give way. 

Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! 

All that of good and fair 
Has gone into thy womb from earlie.st time. 
Shall then come forth, to wear 
The glory and the beauty of its prime. 

They have not ])eri.sh’d—no ! 

Kind words, remember’d voices once so sweet, 
Smiles, radiant long ago. 

And features, the great soul's apparent seat. 

All shall come back ; each tie 
Of pure affection .shall be knit again; 

Alone .shall Evil die. 

And Sorrow dwell a piisoner in thy reign. 

And then .shall I behold 
Him by who.se kind paternal side I sprung. 

And her who, still and cold. 

Fills the next grave,—the beautiful and young. 



THE MUKUEKEH 



HEN spring, to woods and wastes around. 
Brought bloom and joy again ; 

The murdered traveler’s bones were found, 
Far down a narrow glen. 


TRAVELER. 

The fragrant birch, above him, hung 
Her tassels in the sky ; 

And many a vernal blossom sprung. 
And nodded careless by. 











WILLIAM CULLEX BRYANT. 


295 


The red bird warbled, as he wrought 
His lianging uest o’erhead ; 

And fearless, near the fatal spot. 

Her young the partridge led. 

But there was weeping far away. 

And gentle eyes, for him, 

AVith watching many an anxious day, 
Were sorrowful and dim. 

They little knew, who loved him so. 
The fearful death he met, 

AVhen shouting o’er the desert snow. 
Unarmed and hard beset; 

Nor how, when round the frosty pole, 
The northern dawn was red. 


The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole 
To banquet on the dead; 

Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 
They dressed the hasty bier, 

And marked his grave with nameless stones. 
Unmoistened by a tear. 

But long they looked, and feared, and wept. 
Within his distant home ; 

And dreamed, and started as they slept, 
For joy that he was come. 

Long, long they looked—but never spied 
His welcome step again. 

Nor knew the fearful death he died 
Far down that narrow glen. 


- 


THE BATTLEFIELD. 


Soon after the following poem was written, an English critic, referring to the stanza begining—“Truth 
crushed to earth shall rise again,”—said : “Mr. Bryant has certainly a rare merit for having written a stanza 
W’hich will bear comparison with any four lines as one of the noblest in tlie English language. The thought 
is complete, the expression perfect. A poem of a dozen such verses would be like a row of pearls, each 
beyond a king’s ransom.” 


NCP] this soft turf, this rivulet’s sand.s, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 
And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encounter’d in the battle-cloud. 

Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gush’d the life-blood of her brave,— 
Gush’d, warm with hope and courage yet. 

Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fre.sh, and still. 

Alone the chir]) of flitting bird. 

And talk of children on the bill. 

And bell of wandering kine, are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouth’d gun and staggering wain; 
Men start not at the battle-cry: 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 
For truths which men receive not now. 

Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year; 



A wild and many-weapon’d throng 

Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof. 

And blench not at thy chosen lot; 

The timid good may stand aloof. 

The sage may frown—yet faint thou not, 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 

'fhe foul and bi.ssing bolt of scorn ; 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last. 

The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crush’d to earth, shall rise again ; 
The eternal years of God are hers ; 

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain. 

And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea. though thou lie upon the dust. 

When they who help’d thee flee in fear. 

Die full of hope and manly trust. 

Like those who fell in battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield. 
Another hand the standard wave. 

Till from the trumpet’s mouth is peal’d 
The blast of triumph o’er thy grave. 

















EDGAR ALLEN POE. 

THE WEIRD AXD MYSTERIOUS GEXIUS. 

DGAR ALLEN POE, the author of “ The Raven,” “ Annabel Lee,” 
‘‘The Haunted Palace,” “To One in Paradise,” “ Israfel” and 
“ Lenore,” was in his j)eculiar sphere, the most brilliant writer, per¬ 
haps, who ever lived. His writings, however, belong to a different 
world of thought from that in which Bryant, Longfellow, Emerson, 
AVdiittier and Lowell lived and labored. Theirs was the realm of 
nature, of light, of human joy, of happiness, ease, hope and cheer. Poe spoke 
from the dungeon of depression. He was in a constant struggle with poverty. His 
whole life was a tragedy in which sombre shades played an unceasing role, and vet 
from out^ these weird depths came forth things so beautiful that their very sadness 
is charming and holds us in a spell of bewitching enchantment. Edgar Eawcett 
says of him ;— ~ 

“ He loved all shadowy spots, all seasons drear; 

All ways of darkness lured his ghastly whim ; 

Strange fellowships he held with goblins grim, 

At whose demoniac eyes he felt no fear. 

• By desolate paths of dream where fancy’s owl 

Sent long lugubrious hoots through sombre air. 

Amid thought’s gloomiest caves he went to prowl 
And met delirium in her awful lair.” 

Edgar Poe was born in Boston February 19th, 1809. His father was a Mary¬ 
lander, as was also his grandfather, who was a distinguislied Revolutionary soldier 
and a friend of General Lafayette. The parents of Poe were both actors who toured 
the countrv in the ordinary manner, and tliis perhaps accounts for his birth in 
Boston. Their liome was in Baltimore, Maryland. 

When Poe was only a few years old both jiarents died, within two weeks in 
Riclimond, Virginia. Their three children, two daughters, one older ami one 
younger than the subject of this sketcli, were all adojited by friends of the family. 
Mr. John Allen, a rich tobacco merchant of Richmond, Virginia, adoiited Edo-ar 
(who was henceforth called Edgar Allen Poe), and had him carefully educated, ffrst 
in England, afterwards at the Richmond Academy and the University of Virginia, 

2q6 





























EDGAR ALLEN POE. 


297 


and subsequently at West Point. He always distinguislied himself in his studies, 
but from West Point he was dismissed after one year, it is said because he refused to 
submit to the discipline of the institution. 

In common with the custom in the University of V^irginia at that time, Poe 
acquired the habits of drinking and gambling, and the gambling ilebts which he 
contracted incensed Mr. Allen, who refused to })ay them. This brought on the 
beginning of a series of quarrels which finally led to Poe’s disinheritance and per¬ 
manent separation from his benefactor. Thus turned out upon the cold, unsympa¬ 
thetic world, without business training, without friends, without money, knowing 
not how to make money—yet, with a proud, imperious, aristocratic nature,—we have 
the beginning of the saddest story of any life in literature—struggling for nearly 
twenty years in gloom and jmverty, with here and there a ray of sunshine, and 
closing with delirium tremens in Baltimore, October 7th, 184U, at forty years of age. 

To those who know the full details of the sad story of Poe’s life it is little wonder 
that his sensitive, passionate nature sought surcease from disappointment in the 
nepenthe of the intoxicating cup. It was but natural for a man of his nervous 
temperament and delicacy of feeling to fall into that melancholy moroseness which 
would chide even the angels for taking away his beautiful “ Annabel Lee;” or that 
he should wail over the “ Lost Lenore,” or declare that his soul should “m-vermore” 
be lifted from the shadow of the “ Raven” iqion the tlooi-. d'hese poems and others 
are but the expressions of disappointment and desjiair of a soul alienated from 
happy human relations. While we admii-e their power and beauty, we should 
remember at what (‘ost of ])ain and suffering and disappointment they were jiroduced. 
They are powerful illustrations of the prodigal expense of human stlength, of 
broken hopes and hitter experiences through which rare specimens of our liteiature 
are often gi own. 

To treat the life of Edgar Allen Poe, with its les.sons, fully, would require the 
scope of a volume. Both as a man and an author there is a sad fascination which 
belongs to no other writer, perhaps, in the world. His personal chai'acter has been 
represented as pronouncedly double. It is .said that Stevenson, who was a great 
admirer of Poe, received the inspiration for his novel, “ Dr. Jekyll and i\fr. Hyde” 
from the contemplation of his double character. Paul Hamilton Hayne has also 
written a poem entitled, “ Poe,” which presents in a ilouble shape the angel and 
demon in one body. The first two stanzas of which we (|uote;— 

“ Two mijility spirits dwelt in liini ■. 

One, a wild demon, weird and dim, 

The darkness of whose ebon winj^s 
Did shroud unutterable things ; 

One, a fair angel, in the skies 
Of whose serene, unshadowed eyes 
Were seen the lights of Paradise. 

To these, in turn, he gave the whole 
Vast empire of his brooding .sonl; 

Now, filled with strains of heavenly swell. 

Now thrilled with awful tones of hell : 

Wide were his being’s strange extremes, 

• ’Twixt netber glooms, and Eden gleams 

Of tender, or majestic dreams.” 


298 


EUGAR ALLEN POE. 


It must be said in justice to Poe’s memory, however, that the above idea of his 
beins; botli demon and angel became prevalent through the first biography pub¬ 
lished of him, by Dr. Rufus Griswold, who no doubt sought to avenge himself on 
the dead poet for the severe but unanswerable criticisins. which the latter had 
passed upon his and other contemporaneous authors’ writings. Later biographies, 
notably those of J. H. Ingram and Mrs. Sarah Ellen Whitman, as well as pub¬ 
lished statements from his business associates, have disproved many of Griswold’s 
clamaging statements, and placed the private character of Poe in a far more favor¬ 
able light before the world. He left off gambling in his youth, and the appetite 
for drink, which followed him to the close of his life, was no doubt inherited from 
his father who, before him, was a drunkard. 

It is natural for admirers of Poe’s genius to contemplate with regret akin to sor¬ 
row those circumstances and characteristics which made him so unhappy, and yet 
the serious question arises, was not that character and his unhappy life necessary to 
the productions of his marvelous pen ? Let us suppose it was, and in charity draw 
the mantle of forgetfulness over his misguided ways, covering the sad picture of his 
})ersonal life from view, and hang in its place the matchless })ortrait of his splendid 
genius, before which, with true American pride, we may summon all the world to 
stand with uncovered heads. 

As a writer of short stories Poe had no equal in America. He is said to have 
been the originator of the modern detective story. The artful ingenuity with which 
he works up the details of his plot, and minute attention to tlie smallest illustrative 
particular, give his tales a vivid interest from which no reader can escape. His 
skill in analysis is as marked as his power of word painting. The scenes of gloom 
and terror which he loves to depict, the forms of horror to which he gives almost 
actual life, render his mastery over the reader most exciting and absorbing. 

As a j)oet Poe ranks among the most original in the world. He is pre-eminently 
a poet of the imagination. It is useless to seek in his verses for philosophy or 
preaching. He brings into his poetry all the weirdness, subtlety, artistic detail and 
facility in coloring wliich give the charm to his prose stories, and to these he adds 
a musical How of language which has never been equalled. To him poetry was 
music, and there was no poetry that was not musical. For poetic harmony he has 
had no equal certainly in America, if, indeed, in the world. Admirers of his poems 
are almost sure to read them over and over again, each time finding new forms of 
beauty or charm in them, and the reader abandons himself to a current of melodious 
fancy that soothes and charms like distant music at night, or the rippling of a near¬ 
by, but unseen, brook. The images which he creates are vague and illusive. As 
one of his biographers has written, “ He heard in his dreams the tinkling footfalls 
of angels and seraphim and subordinated everything in his verse to the delicious 
effect of musical sound.” As a literary critic Poe’s capacities were of the greatest. 
“ In that large part of the critic’s perceptions,” says Duyckinck, “ in knowledge of 
the mechanism of composition, he has been unsurpassed by any writer in America.” 

Poe was also a fine reader and elocutionist. A writer who attended a lecture by 
him in Richmond says ; “ I never heard a voice so musical as his. It was full of 

the sweetest melody. No one who heard his recitation of the “Raven” will ever 
forget the beauty and pathos with which this recitation was rendered. The 


EDOAR ALLEN POE. 


299 


audience was still as death, and as his weird, musical voice filled the hall its effect 
was simply indescribable. It seems to me that I can yet hear that long, plaintive 
“ nevermore.” 

Among the labors of Poe, aside from his published volumes and contributions to 
miscellaneous magazines, should be mentioned his various positions from 1834 to 1848 
as critic and editor on the “ Literary Messenger ” of Richmond, Virginia, the 
“Gentleman’s Magazine” of Philadel})hia, “ Graham’s Magazine” of Philadelphia, 
the “ Evening Mirror” of New York, and the “ Broadway Journal” of New York, 
which positions he successively held. The last he gave up in 1848 with the idea of 
starting a literary magazine of his own, but the project failed, perhaps on account 
of his death, which occurred the next year. His first volume of poems was ])ub- 
lished in 1829. In 1833 he won two prizes, one for prose and one for poetic com¬ 
position, offered by the Baltimore “Saturday Visitor,” his “Manuscript Found in 
a Bottle” being awarded the prize for prose and the poem “The Coliseum” for 
poetry. The latter, however, he did not recieve because the judges found the same 
author had won them both. In 1838 Harper Brotliers published his ingenious 
fiction, “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.” In 1840 “ Tales 
of the Grotesque and Arabesque” were issued in Philadelphia. In 1844 he took 
up his residence at Fordham, New York, where his wife died in 1847, and where he 
continued to reside for the balance of his life. His famous poem the “ Raven” was 
published in 1845, and during 1848 and 1849 he published “Eureka” and 
“ Elalume,” the former being a prose ])oem. It is the crowning work of his life, to 
which he devoted the last and most matured energies of his wonderful intellect. 
To those who desire a further insight into the character of the man and his laboi-s 
we would recommend the reading of J. H. Ingram’s “Memoir” and Mrs. 8>arali 
Ellen Whitman’s “ Edgar Poe and His Critics,” the latter published in 1863. 





ED(;AR ALLEN TOE. 


30 (j 


LENORE. 


Mrs. Whitman, in her reminiscences of Poe, tells us the following incident which gave rise to the writing 
of these touching lines. While Poe was in the Academy at Richmond, Virginia,—as yet a boy of about 
sixteen years,—he was invited by a friend to visit his home. The mother of this friend was a singularly 
beautiful and withal a most kindly and sympathetic woman. Having learned that Poe was an orphan she 
greeted him with the motherly tenderness and aft'ection shown toward her own son. The boy was so over¬ 
come that it is said he stood for a minute unable to speak and finally with tears he declared he had never 
before known his loss in the love of a true and devoted mother. From that time forward he was frequently 
a visitor, and the attachment betw'een him and this kind-hearted woman continued to grow. On Poe’s 
return from Europe when he was about twenty years of age, he learned that she had died a few' days before 
his arrival, and w'as so overcome with grief that he went nightly to her grave, even when it was dark and 
rainy, spending hours in fancied communion with her spirit. Later he idealized in his musings the embodi¬ 
ment of such a spirit in a young and beautiful woman, whom he made his lover and whose untimely death 
he imagined and used as the inspiration of this poem. 


II, broken is the golden bowl, 

The spirit flown forever ! 

Let the bell toll! 

A saintly soul 
Floats on the Stygian river; 

And, Guy de Veke, 

Hast thou no tear? 

Weep now or never more ! 

See, on yon drear 
And rigid bier 

Low lies thy love, Lenore ! 

Come, let the burial-rite be read— 

The funeral-song be sung !— 

An anthem for the quecnliest dead 
That ever died so young— 

A dirge for her the doubly dead. 

In that .she died .so young ! 

“ Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth, 

And hated her for her pride ; 

And when she fell in feeble health. 

Ye ble.ss'd her—that she died ! 

How shall the ritual, then, be read? 

The re(|uiem Injw be sung 
By you—by yours, the evil eye— 

By yours the slanderous tongue 
That did to death the innocence 
'I'hat died, and died so young ? ” 

Peccavimus ; 

But rave not thus ! 

And let a .sabbath song 

Go up to God so solemnly, the dead may feel no 
wrong! 



The sweet Lenore 
Hath “ gone before,” 

With Hope, that flew be.sido. 
Leaving thee wild 
For the dear child 

That should have been thy bride— 
For her, the fair 
And debonair, 

That now so lowly lies. 

The life upon her yellow hair 
But not within her eyes— 

The life still there. 

Upon her hair— 

The death upon her eyes. 

“ Avaunt! to-night 
My heart is light. 

No dirge w ill I upraise. 

But waft the angel on her flight 
With a paean of old days ! 

Let no bell toll!— 

Lest her sweet soul, 

Amid its hallow’d mirth, 

Should catch the note. 

As it doth float— 

Up from the damned earth. 

To friends above, from fiends below, 
The indignant ghost is liven—■ 
From hell unto a high estate 
Far up within the heaven— 

From grief and groan. 

To a golden throne. 

Beside the King of Heaven.” 


THE BELLS. 


This selection is a favorite with reciters. It is an excellent piece for voice culture. The musical flow of 
the metre and happy selection of the words make it possible for the skilled speaker to closely imitate the 
sounds of the ringing bells. 



EAR the sledges with the bells— 

Silver bells! 

What a world of merriment their melody 
foretells! 


How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night ! 

While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens, .seem to twinkle 












EDGAR ALLEN POE. 


With a crystalline delight; 

Keeping time, time, time. 

In a sort of Runic rhyme. 

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, hells, bells. 

Bells, bells, bells— 

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells— 

Golden bells! 

A\ hat a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight! 

From the molten-golden notes, 

And all in tune, 

What a liquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon ! 

Oh, from out the sounding cells. 

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 

How it swells ! 

How it dwells. 

On the future! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells.— 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 

Bells, bells, bells— 

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! 

Hear the loud alarum bells— 

Brazen bells! 

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their afright! 

Too much horrifled to speak. 

They can only shriek, shriek. 

Out of tune. 

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire. 

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire 
Leaping higher, higher, higher. 

With a desperate desire. 

And a resolute endeavor. 

Now—now to sit or never. 

By the side of the pale-faced moon. 

Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 

What a tale their terror tells 
Of despair! 

How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 

What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 


.^or 

Yet the ear, it fully knows. 

By the twanging. 

And the clanging. 

How the danger ebbs and flows ; 

Yet the ear distinctly tells. 

In the jangling 
And the wrangling. 

How the danger sinks and swells. 

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the 
bells— 

Of the bells— 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 

Bells, bells, bells— 

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! 

Hear the tolling of the bells— 

Iron bells! 

What a world of solemn thought their monody 
compels I 

In the silence of the night. 

How we shiver with affright. 

At the melancholy menace of their tone! 

For every sound that ffoats 
From the rust within their throats 
Is a groan. 

And the peojile—ah, the people— 

They that dwell up in the steeple. 

All alone. 

And who tolling, tolling, tolling. 

In that muffled monotone. 

Feel a glory in so rolling 
On the human heart a stone— 

They are neither man nor woman— 

They are neither brute nor human— 

They are ghouls; 

And their king it is who tolls ; 

And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, 

A paean from the bells ! 

And his merry bosom swells 
With the paean of the bells! 

And he dances and he yells; 

Keeping time, time, time. 

In a sort of Runic rhyme. 

To the paean of the bells— 

Of the bells ; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme. 

To the throbbing of the bells— 

Of the bells, bells, bells. 

To the sobbing of the bells ; 

Keeping time, time, time. 



302 


EDGAR ALLEN POE. 


THE RAVEN. 

This poem is generally allowed to be one of the most remarkable examples of a harmony of sentiment 
with rhythmical expression to be found in any language. While the poet sits musing in his study, endeavor¬ 
ing to win from books “surcease of sorrow for the lost Lenore,” a raven—the symbol of despair—enters 
the room and perches upon a bust of Pallas. A colloquy follows between the poet and the bird of ill omen 
with its haunting croak of “Nevermore.” 



THE K.WEN. 


NCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pon¬ 
dered, weak and weary, 

(dver many a quaint and curious volume 
of forgotten lore,— 

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly 
there came a tapping. 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at 
my chamber-door. 

“ ’Tis some visitor,” I mutter’d, “ tapping 
at my chamber-door— 

Only this and nothing more.” 

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak De¬ 
cember, 


And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost 
upon the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought 
to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the 
lost Lenore,— 

For the rare and raidant maiden whom the angels 

O 

name Lenore.—■ 

Nameless here forevevmore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple 
curtain. 

Thrilled me,—filled me with fantastic terrors never 
felt before; 


















EDGAR ALLEX POE. 


So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood 
repeating, 

“ ’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber- 
door,— 

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber- 
door ; 

That it is, and nothing more.” 

Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no 
longer, 

“ Sir,” said I, “ or Madam, truly your forgiveness I 
implore; 

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you 
came rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my 
chamber-door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you ”—here I opened 
wide the door: 

Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, 
wondering, fearing. 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to 
dream before; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave 
no token. 

And the only word there spoken was the whispered 
word, “ Lenore ! ” 

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the 
word, “ Lenore ! ” 

jMerely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within 
me burning, 

Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than 
before. 

“ Surely,” said I, “ surely that is something at my 
window-lattice; 

Let me see then what thereat is and this mystery 
explore,— 

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery 
explore — 

’Tis the wind, and nothing more.” 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a 
flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days 
of yore. 

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute 
stopped or stayed he ; 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my 
chamber-door,— 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my cham¬ 
ber-door— 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into 
smiling. 


By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance 
it wore, 

“ Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I 
said, “ art sure no craven ; 

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the 
nightly shore. 

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Plu¬ 
tonian shore?” 

Quoth the raven, ‘'Nevermore ! ” 

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse 
so plainly. 

Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy 
bore; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human 
being 

Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his cham¬ 
ber-door. 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his 
chamber-door 

With such^name as “ Nevermore ! ” 

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke 
only 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did 
outpour. 

Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then 
he fluttered— 

Till I scarcely more than muttered, “ Other friends 
have flown before, 

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have 
flown beibre. 

Then the bird said, “ Nevermore ! ” 

Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly 
spoken, 

“ Doubtless,” said I, “ what it utters is its only stock 
and store. 

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful 
disaster 

Follow’d fast and follow’d fa.ster, till his songs one 
burden bore, 

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden 
bore. 

Of—‘ Never—nevermore ! ’ ” 

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into 
smiling. 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird 
and bust and door. 

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to 
linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous birrf 
of yore— 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and omi¬ 
nous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking “ Nevermore ! ” 



3^4 


EDGAR ALLEN POE. 


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex¬ 
pressing 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my 
bosom's coi-e; 

This and more 1 sat divining, with my head at ease 
reclining 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light 
gloated o’er. 

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light 
gloating o’er 

8he shall press—ah ! nevermore ! 

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from 
an unseen censer 

8wung by seraphim, whose fo(A-falls tinkled on the 
tufted floor. 

“ Wretch,” 1 cried. *' thy God hath lent thee,—by 
these angels he hath sent thee 

Ke.s{)ite—respite and nejjenthe from thy memories of 
Lenore! 

Quaff', oh, quaff this kind nepeMhe, and forget this 
lost Lenore ! ” 

Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore ! ” 

Prophet! ” said I, “ thing of evil!—prophet still, if 
bird or devil! 

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest to.ssed 
thee here ashore. 

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land en¬ 
chanted— 

On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I 
implore.— 

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell 
me, 1 implore ! ” 

Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore 1 ” 


“ Prophet! ” said I, “ thing of evil!—prophet still, if 
bird or devil! 

By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we 
both adore. 

Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant 
Aidenn, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels 
name Ijenore; 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels 
name Lenore!” 

Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore! ” 

“ Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! ” I 
shrieked, upstarting,— 

“Get thee back into the tempest and the night’s 
Plutonian shore. 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul 
hath spoken ! 

Leave my loneliness unbroken !—quit the bust above 
my door! 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form 
from off my door ! ” 

Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore ! ” 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 
sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber- 
door ; 

And his eyes have all the .seeming of a demon’s that 
is dreaming, 

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his 
shadow on the floor; 

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating 
on the floor 

Shall be lifted—nevermore ! 


- 






HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

THE POET OF THE PEOPLE. 

“//e who sung to one clear harp in divers tones." 


N an old square wooden bouse upon the edge of the sea” the most 
famous and most widely read of all American poets was born in 
Portland, Maine, February 7th, 1807. 

In his personality, his wide range of themes, his learning and his 
wonderful })ower of telling stories in song, Henry Wadsworth 
Longfellow stood in his day and still stands easily in front of all 
other poets who have enriched American literature. Admitting that he was not 
rugged and elemental like Bryant and did not possess the latter’s feelings for 
the colossal features of wild scenery, that he was not profoundly thoughtful 
and transcendental like Emerson, that he was not so earnestly and passionately 
sympathetic as Whittier, nevertheless he was our first artist in poetry. Bryant, 
Emerson and Whittier commanded but a few stojis of the grand instrument 
upon which they played; Longfellow understood perfectly all its capabilities. 
Critics also say that “ he had not the high ideality or dramatic power of 
Tennyson or Browning.” But does he not hold something else which to the world 
at large is perhaps more valuable? Certainly these two great poets are inferior to 
him in the power to sweep the chords of daily human experiences and call forth the 
sweetness and beauty in common-place every day human life. It is on these themes 
that he tuned his hai-}) without ever a false tone, and sang with a harmony so well nigh 
perfect that the universal heart responded to his music. This common-place song 
has found a lodgement in every household in America, “ swaying the hearts of men 
and women whose sorrows have been soothed and whose lives raised by his gentle 
ver.se.” 

“ Such songs have power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care, 

And come like the benediction 
That follows after prayer.” 



Longfellow’s life from the very beginning moved on even lines. Both he and 
William Cullen Bryant were descendants of John Alden, whom Longfellow has 
made famous in “ Idie Courtship of Miles Standish.” The Longfellows were a 
family in comfortable circumstances, peaceful and honest, for many generations back. 

305 


20 





















THE WAYSIDE INN. 

Scene of Longfellow’s Famous “Tales of the Wayside Inn." 

resigned, devoting the remainder of Ids life to literary work and to the enjoyment 
of the association of such friends as Charles Sumner the statesman, Hawthorne the 
romancer, Louis Agassiz the great naturalist, and James Russell Lowell, the brother 
poet who succeeded to the chair of Longfellow in Harvard University on the latter’s 
resignation. 

The home of Longfellow was not only a delightful place to visit on account of 
the cordial welcome extended by the conijianioiiable poet, but for its historic asso¬ 
ciations as well I for it was none other than the old Cragie House” which had 
■been Washington’s headquarters during the Revolutionary War, the past tradition 
and recent hospitality of which have been well told by G. W. Curtis in his “ Homes 
of American Authors.” It was here that Longfellow surrounded himself with a 


306 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

The poet went to school with Nathaniel P. Willis and other boys who at an early 
age were thinking more of verse making than of pleasure. He graduated at Bow- 
doin College in l8l^o with Nathaniel Hawthorne, John S. C. Abbott, and others 
who afterwards attained to hime. Almost immediately after his graduation he was 
requested to take the chair of Modern Languages and Literature in his alma mater^ 
which he acce])ted; but before, entering upon his duties sjient three ^^ears in Ger¬ 
many, France, Spain and Italy to further perfect himself in the languages and 
literature of those nations. At Bowdoin College Longfellow remained as Professor 
of Modern Languages and Literature until 1885, when he accepted a similar posi¬ 
tion in Harvard University, which he continued to occujiy until 1854, when he 












HENRY WADi^WORTH LONGFELLOW. 


307 


magnificent library, and within these walls he composed all of his famous produc¬ 
tions from 1839 until his death, which occurred there in 1882 at the age of seventy- 
five. The poet was twice married and was one of the most domestic of men. His 
first wife died suddenly in Europe during their sojourn in that country while Long¬ 
fellow was pursuing his ])Ost gi-aduate course of study before taking the chair in Bow- 
doin College. In 1843 he married Miss Frances Appleton, whom he had met in 
Europe and who figures in the pages of his romance “Hyperion.” In 186L she met 
a most tragic death by stepping on a match which set fire to her clothing, causing 
injuries from which she died. She was buried on the 19th anniversary of their mar¬ 
riage. By Longfellow’s own direction she was crowned with a wreath of orange 
blossoms commemorative of the day. The poet was so stricken with grief that for 
a year afterwards he did practically no work, and it is said neither in conversation 
nor in writing to his most intimate friends could he bear to refer to the sad event. 

Longfellow, was one of the most bookish men in our literature. His knowledge 
of others’ thoughts and writings was so great that he became, instead of a creator in 
his poems, a painter of things already created. It is said that he never even owned 
a style of his own like Bryant and Poe, but assimilated wiiat he saw or heard or 
read from books, reclothing it and sending it out again. This does not intimate 
that he was a plagiarist, but that he wrote out of the accumulated knowledge of 
others. “Evangeline,” for instance, was given him by Hawthorne, who had heard 
of the young people of Acadia and kept them in mind, intending to weave them into 
a romance. The forcible deportation of 18,()()() French jieople touched Hawthorne 
as it perhaps never could have touched I.(Ongfellow except in literature, and also as 
it certainly never would have touched the world had not Longfellow woven the 
woof of the story in the threads of his song. 

“Evangeline” was brought out the same year with Tennyson’s “Princess” (1847), 
and divided honors with the latter even in England. In this poem, and in “The 
Courtship of Miles Standish” and other poems, the pictures of the new world are 
brought out with charming simplicity. Though Longfellow never visited Acadia 
or Louisiana, it is the real French village of Grand Pre and the real Louisiana, not 
a poetic dream that are described in this poem. So vivid were his descriptions that 
artists in Europe painted the scenes true to nature and vied with each other in paint¬ 
ing the portrait of Evangeline, among several of which there is said to be so striking 
a resemblance as to suggest the idea that one had served as a copy lor the others. 
The poem took such a hold upon the public, that both the poor man and the rich 
knew Longfellow as they knew not Tennyson their own poet. It was doubtless be¬ 
cause he, though one of the most scholarly of men, always spoke so the plainest 
reader could understand. 

In “The Tales of a Wayside Inn” (1863), the characters were not fictions, but 
real persons. The musician was none other than the famous violinist. Ole Bull; 
Professor Luigi iMonte, a close friend who dined every Sunday with Longfellow, was 
the Sicilian; Hr. Henry Wales was the youth; the, poet was Thomas W. Parsons, 
and the theologian was his brother, Bev. S. W. Longfellow. This poem shows 
Longfellow at his best as a story teller, while the stories which are put into the 
mouth of these actual characters perhaps could have been written by no other liv¬ 
ing man, for they are from the literature of all countries, with which Longfellow was 
so familiar. 


3 o8 


HENRY \VAD><WORTH LONGFELLOW. 


Thus, both “The Tales of a Wayside Inn” and “Evangeline”—as many other of 
Longfellow’s poems—may be called compilations or rewritten stories, rather than 
creations, and it was these characteristics of his writings which Poe and Margaret 
Puller, and others, who considered the realm of poetry to belong purely to the 
imagination rather than the real world, so bitterly criticised. While they did not 
deny to Longfellow a ])oetic genius, they thought he was prostituting it by forcing 
it to drudge in the ju’ovince of prosaic subjects; and for this reason Poe predicted 
that he would not live in literature. 

It was but natural that Longfellow should write as he did. For thirty-five years 
he was an instructor in institutions of learning, and as such believed that poetry 
should be a thing of use as well as beauty. He could not agree with Poe that 
poetry was like music, only a jileasurable art. He had the trijile object of stimu¬ 
lating to research and study, of impressing the mind with history or moral truths, 
and at the same time to touch and warm the heart of humanity. In all three direc¬ 
tions he succeeded to such an extent that he has jirobably been read by more ]ieo])le 
than any other poet except the sacred Psalmist; and despite the jiredictions of his 
distinguished critics to the contrary, such poems as “The Psalm of Life,” (which 
Chas. Sumner allowed, to his knowledge, had saved one man from suicide), “The 
Children’s Hour,” and many others touching the every day exjierienees of the 
multitude, will find a glad echo in the souls of humanity as long as men shall read. 

THE PSALM OF LIFE. 


WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 


This poem has gained wide celebrity as one of l\Ir. Longfellow’s most popular pieces, as has also the 
poem “Excelsior,” (hereafter quoted). They strike a popular chord and do some clever preaching and it 
is in this their chief merit consists. They are by no means among the author’s best poetic productions from 
a critical standpoint. Both these poems were written in early life. 


ELL me not, in mournful numbers, 

Life is but an empty dream! 

For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real! Life is earnest! 

And the grave is not its goal; 

Dust thou art, to dust returnest. 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow. 

Is our destined end or way; 

But to act, that each to-morrow 
Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting. 

And our hearts, though stout and brave. 

Still, like muffled drums, are heating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world’s broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Lile, 


Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 

Be a hero in the strife! 

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead! 
Act,—act in the living Pre.sent 1 
Heart within, and Goi) o'erhead! 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime. 
And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time; 

Footprints, that perhaps another. 
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, 

A forlorn and .shipwreck’d brother, 
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let u.s, then, be up and doing, 

Witli a heart for any fate; 

Still achieving, still pursuing. 

Learn to labor and to wait. 








HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 


309 


’ THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

He earns wliate’er he can, 

And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night. 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. 
With measured beat and slow, 
liike a sexton ringing the village bell 
When the evening sun is low. 




NDER a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands; 

The smith, a mighty man is he. 

With large and sinewy hands; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long; 

His face is like the tan ; 

His brow is wet with honest sweat: 


They love to see the flaming forge, 
And hear the bellows roar. 

And catch the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from the threshing floor. 


And children coming home from school 
Look in at the open door; 

They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar. 

And catch the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church. 

And sits among his boys ; 

He hears the jiarson pray and preach. 
He hears his daughter’s voice. 

Singing in the village choir. 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 


It sounds to him like her mother’s voice. 
Singing in Paradise ! 

He needs must think of her once more. 
How in the grave she lies ; 

And with his hard, rough hand he wij)es 
A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling—rejoicing—sorrowing— 

Onward through life he goes: 

Each morning sees some task begin. 
Each evening sees it close ; 






































310 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


Something attempted—something done, 
Has earned a night’s repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend 
For the lesson thou hast taught! 


Thus at the flaming forge of Life 
Our fortunes must be wrought. 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 


THE BRIDGE. 

A favorite haunt of Longfellow’s was the bridge between Boston and Cambridge, over wdiich he had to 
pass, almost daily. “ I always stop on the bridge,” he writes in his journal. “Tide waters are beautiful,” and 
again, “ We leaned for a wdiile on the wooden rails and enjoyed the silvery reflections of the sea, making 
sundry comparisons.” Among other thouglits, we have these cheering ones, tliat “The old sea was flash¬ 
ing with its heavenly light, though we saw it only in a single track ; the dark waves are dark provinces of 
God ; illuminous though not to us.” 

The following poem was the result of one of Longfellow’s reflections, while standing on this bridge at 
midnight. 

STOOD on the bridge at midnight, 

As the clocks were striking the hour. 

And the moon rose o’er the city, 

Behind the dark church tower; 



And like the waters rushing 
Among the wooden piers, 

A flood of thought came o’er me, 

That filled my eyes with tears. 

IIow often, 0 how often, 

In the-days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight. 
And gazed on that wave and sky! 

IIow often, O how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 
O'er the ocean wild and wide! 

For my heart was hot and restless. 

And my life was full of care, 

And the burden laid upon me. 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me. 

It is buried in the sea; 


And only the sorrow of others 
'J hrows its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 
On its bridge with wooden piers. 
Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 
Of care-encumbered men. 

Each having his burden of sorrow, 
Have crossed the bridge since then. 

I see the long procession 
Still passing to and fro, 

The young heart hot and restless. 

And the old, subdued and slow ! 

And forever and forever. 

As long as the river flows. 

As long as the heart has jiassions, 

As long as life has woes; 

The moon and its broken reflection 
And its shadows shall appear. 

As the symbol of love in heaven. 

And its wavering image here. 


RESIGNATION. 


HERE is no flock, however watched and 
tended. 

But one dead lamb is there! 

There is no fireside, howsoe’r defended, 
But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying 
And mournings for the dead ; 

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying. 

Will not be comforted ! 


Let us be patient! These severe afflictions 
Not from the ground arise, 

But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dindy through the mists and vapors; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 
May be heaven’s distant lamps. 

















HEXRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


There is no Death ! What seems so is transition : 
This life of mortal breath 

Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead,—the child of our affection,— 
But gone unto that school 

Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 
And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister’s stillnes and seclusion. 

By guardian angels led, 

* Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution, 
She lives whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 
In those bright realms of air; 

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 
Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 
The bond wdiich nature gives, 


Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 
May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her; 

For when with raptures wild 

In our embraces we again enfold her. 

She will not be a child : 

But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion, 
Clothed with celestial grace ; 

And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion 
Shall we behold her face. 

And though, at times, impetuous with emotion 
And anguish long suppressed, 

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 
That cannot be at rest,— 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
We may not wholly stay ; 

By silence sanctifying, not concealing 
The grief that must have way. 


GOD'S ACHE. 


LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls 
The burial-ground God’s acre ! It is just; 

It consecrates each grave within its walls, 
And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping 
dust. 

God’s Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown 
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts. 
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast. 

In the sure faith that we shall rise again 



At the great harvest, when the archangel’s blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan the chaff and grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom. 

In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 

And each bright blossom mingle its perfume 

With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare. Death, turn up the sod, 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; 

This is the field and Acre of our God ! 

This is the place where human harvests grow I 


EXCELSIOR. 


HE shades of night were falling fast. 

As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, ’rnid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device. 
Excelsior! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath. 

Flashed like a falchion from its sheath. 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue. 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright; 


Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 

And from his lips escaped a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

“ Try not to Pass !” the old man said; 

“ Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide 1” 
And loud that clarion voice replied. 
Excelsior! 

“ 0, stay,” the maiden said, “ and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast!” 

A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior! 













HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


12 


“ Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche !” 

This was the peasant’s last Good-night; 

A voice replied, far up the height, 
hlxcelsior! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The ]»ious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 

A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior! 


A traveler, by the faithful hound. 
Half-buried in the snow was found. 
Still grasping in his hand ol' ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior ! 

There, in the twilight cold and gray. 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 

And from the sky, serene and far, 

A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior! 


THE RAINY DAY. 


HE day is cold, and dark and dreary; 

It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall. 

And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; 

It rains, and the wind is never weary; 

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, 


But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all. 

Into each life some rain must fall. 

Some days must be dark dreary. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

The writing of the following poem, “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” was occasioned by the news of a 
ship-w'reck on the coast near Gloucester, and by the name of a reef—“Norman’s Woe”—where many 
disasters occurred. It was written one night between tw'elve and three o’clock, and cost the poet, it is 
said, hardly an effort. 


was the schooner Hesperus 
3^1 sailed the wintry sea; 

[Kr^oy^l And the skipper had taken his little 
daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax. 

Her cheeks like the dawn of day. 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds 
That ope in the month of IMay. 

The skipper he .stood beside the helm. 

His pipe was in his mouth, 

And watched how the veering flaw did blow 
The smoke now west, now south. 

Then up and spake an old sailor, 

Had sailed the Spanish main ; 

“ I pray thee put into yonder port. 

For I fear a hurricane. 

“ La.st night the moon had a golden ring. 

And to-night no moon we see !” 

^he skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, 

Ait'l a scornful laugh laughed he. 


Colder and colder blew the wind, 

A gale from the north-east; 

The snow fell his.sing in the brine. 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm and smote amain 
The ves.sel in its strength ; 

She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,. 
Then leaped her cable’s length. 

♦ 

“ Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter, 
And do not tremble so, 

For I can weather the roughest gale ' 

That ever wind did blow.” 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman’s coat. 
Against the stinging blast ; 

Fie cut a rope from a broken spar. 

And bound her to the mast. 

“ Oh father ! I hear the church-liells ring, 

Oh say what may it be ? ” 

“ ’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast 
And he steered for the open sea. 







HENRY wads;WORTH LONGFELLOW. 


313 


“ Oh father! I hear the sound of guns, 
Oh, say, what may it be? ” 

“ Some ship in distress, that cannot live 
In such an angry sea.” 

“ Oh, father ! I see a gleaming light. 

Oh. say, what may it be ? 
liut the father answered never a word— 
A frozen corpse was he. 


Then the maiden clasped her hands, and prayed 
That saved she might be ; 

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waves 
On the lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept, 

Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe. 

And ever, the fitful gusts between, 

A sound came from the land ; 

It was the sound of the trampling surf 
On the rocks and hard sea-sand. 


The breakers were right beneath her bows. 
She drifted a dreary wreck. 

And a whooping billow swept the crew 
Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 
Jjooked soft as carded wool. 

But the cruel rocks, they gored her .side 
Ifike the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice. 

With the masts, went by the board ; 

Like a vessel of glass .she stove and sank— 
Ho ! lio ! the breakers roared. 

At daybreak on tb^ bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast. 

To see the form of a maiden fair 
La.shed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast. 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 

And he .saw her hair, like the brown seaweed. 
On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow ; 

Christ save us all from a death like this. 

On the reef of Norman's Woe. 


La.shed to the helm, all stiff and stark. 

With his face to the skies, 

The lantern gleamed, through the gleaming snow. 
On his fixed and gias.sy eyes. 


THE OLD CLO(’K 

OMEWHAT back from the village street 
Stands the old-fashioned country .seat; 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar trees their shadows throw ; 
And, from its station in the hall. 

An ancient timepiece says to all, 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever ” 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 

And points and beckons with its hands,, 

From its ca.se of ma.ssive oak. 

Like a monk who, under his cloak. 

Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! 

VVith sorrowful voice to all who pass, 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 

By day its voice is low and light; 

Ihit in the silent dead of night. 

Distinct as a pas.sing footstep’s fall. 

It echoes along the vacant hall. 

Along the ceiling, along the floor. 

And seems to .say at each chamber door, 

“ Forever—never! 

Never—forever I” 


ON THE STAIRS. 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 

Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood. 

And as if, like God, it all things .saw, 

It calmly repeats those words of awe, 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever 1” 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality ; 

His great fires up the chimney roared; 

The stranger feasted at his board ; 

But, like the skeleton at the feast. 

That warning timepiece never ceased 
“ Forever—never 1 
Never—forever 1” 

There groups of merry children played; 

There youths and maidens dreaming stra 3 ’ed; 
Oh. j)recious hours ! oh, golden prime 
And affluence of love and time 1 
Even as a miser counts his gold. 

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,— 

“ Forever—never 1 
Never—forever I” 



/ 








HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


3 M 

From that chamber, clothed in white, As in the days long since gone by. 

The bride came forth on her wedding night; The ancient timepiece makes reply, 


There, in that silent room below. 

The dead lay, in his shroud of snow; 

And, in the hush that followed the prayer. 
Was heard the old clock on the stair,— 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 

All are scattered now, and fled,— 

Some are married, some are dead : 

And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 

“ Ah !” when shall they all meet again? 


“ Fore.ver—never ! 

Never—forever !” 

Never here, forever there, 

Where all parting, pain, and care 
And death, and time shall disappear,— 
Forever there, but never here ! 

The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly, 

“ Forever—never ! 

Never—forever!” 


THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 


The writing of this famous ballad was suggested to IMr. Longfellow by the digging up of a mail-clad 
skeleton at Fall-River, Massachusetts—a circumstance which the poet linked with the traditions about the 
Round Tower at Newport, thus giving to it the spirit of a Norse Viking song of war and of the sea. It is 
written in the swift leaping meter employed by Drayton in his “Ode to the Cauibro Britons on their 
Harp.” 



PEAK ! speak ! thou fearful guest! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me ! 

Wrapt not in Eastern balms. 

But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretch’d, as if asking alms. 

Why dost thou haunt me ? ” 


“ Oft to his frozen lair 
Track’d I the grizzly bear, 
While from my path the hare 
Fled like a shadow ; 

Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf's bark. 
Until the soaring lark 
Sang from the meadow. 


Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise. 

As when the Northern skies 
Gleam in December ; 

And, like the water’s flow 
Under December’s snow. 

Came a dull voice of woe 
From the heart's chamber. 

“ I was a Viking old ! 

IMy deeds, though manifold. 

No Skald in song has told. 

No Saga taught thee! 

Take heedj that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse. 

Else dread a dead man’s curse ! 
For this I sought thee. 

“ Far in the Northern Land, 

By the wild Baltic’s strand, 

I, with my childish hand, 

Tamed the ger-falcon ; 

And, with my skates fast-bound, 
Skimm’d the half-frozen Sound, 
That the poor whimpering hound 
Trembled to walk on. 


“ But when I older grew. 
Joining a corsair’s crew. 

O’er the dark sea I flew 
With the marauders. 
Wild was the life we led ; 
iVIany the souls that sped. 
Many the hearts that bled. 
By our stern orders. 

“ jMany a wassail-bout 
Wore the long winter out; 
Often our midnight shout 
Set the cocks crowing. 

As we the Berserk’s tale 
Measured in cups of ale, 
Draining the oaken pail. 
Fill’d to o’erflowing. 

“ Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 

Soft eyes did gaze on me. 
Burning out tender; 

And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine. 
On that dark heart of mine 
Fell their soft splendor. 










HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 


315 


“ I woo’d the blue-eyed maid, 

Yielding, yet half afraid. 

And in the forest’s shade 
Our vows were plighted. 

Under its loosen’d vest 
Flutter’d her little breast. 

Like birds within their nest 
By the hawk frighted. 

“ Bright in her father’s hall 
Shields gleam’d upon the wall, 

Loud sang the minstrels all. 

Chanting his glory; 

When of old Hildebrand 
I ask’d his daughter’s hand. 

Mute did the minstrel stand 
To hear my story. 

“ While the brown ale he quaff’d 
Loud then the champion laugh’d, 

And as the wind-gusts waft 
'J’he sea-foam brightly. 

So the loud laugh of scorn. 

Out of those lips unshorn. 

From the deep drinking-horn 
Blew the foam lightly. 

She was a Prince’s child, 

I but a Viking wild. 

And though she blush’d and smiled, 

I was discarded! 

Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew’s flight. 

Why did they leave that night 
Her nest unguarded? 

“ Scarce had I put to sea. 

Bearing the maid with me,— 

Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen !— 

When on the white sea-strand. 
Waving his armed hand, 

Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 

Then launch’d they to the blast. 

Bent like a reed each mast. 

Yet we were gaining fast. 

When the wind fail’d us; 

And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 

So that our foe we saw • 

Laugh as he hail’d us. 


And as to catch the gale 
Bound veer’d the flapping sail. 
Death ! was the helmsman’s haU, 
Death without quarter! 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel; 

Down her black hulk did reel 
Through the black water. 

“ As with his wings aslant. 

Sails the fierce cormorant. 

Seeking some rocky haunt. 

With his prey laden. 

So toward the open main. 

Beating to sea again. 

Through the wild hurricane. 

Bore I the maiden. 

“ Three weeks we westward bore. 
And when the storm was o’er, 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 
Stretching to lee-ward; 

There for my lady’s bower 
Built I the lofty tower. 

Which, to this very hour. 

Stands looking sea-ward. 

“ There lived we many years; 

Time dried the maiden’s tears; 

She had forgot her fears. 

She was a mother ; 

Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lies : 

Ne’er shall the sun arise 
On such another! 

“ Still grew my bosom then. 

Still as a stagnant fen 1 
Hateful to me were men, 

The sun-light hateful! 

In the vast forest here. 

Clad in my warlike gear. 

Fell I upon my spear, 

0, death was grateful! 

“ Thus, seam’d with many scars 
Bursting these prison bars, 

Up to its native stars 
My soul ascended I 
There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior’s soul. 
Ska/! to the Northland ! skdl! ”* 
—Thus the tale ended. 


*SkalI is the Swedish expression for “Your Health.” 









RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

THE LIBERATOR OF AMERICAN LITERATURE. 

classify Emerson is a matter of no small difficulty. He was a 
philosopher, he was an essayist, he was a poet—all three so eminently 
that scarcely two of his friends would agree to which class he most 
belonged. OliverAVendell Holmes asks: 

Where in the realm of thought whose air is song 
Does he the Buddha of the west belong ? 

He seems a winged Franklin sweetly wise, 

Born to unlock the secret of the skies.” 

But whatever he did was done with a poetic touch. Philosophy, essay or song, it 
was all pregnant with the spirit of poetry. Whatever else he was Emerson was 
pre-eminently a poet. It was with this golden key that he unlocked the chambers of 
original thought, that liberated American letters. 

Until Emerson came, American authors had little independence. James Russell 
Lowell declares, “We were socially and intellectually bound to English thought, 
until Emerson cut the cable aud gave us a chance at the dangers and glories of blue 
waters. He was our first optimistic writer. Before his day, Puritan theology had 
seen in man only a vile nature and considered his instincts for beauty and pleasure, 
proofs of his total depravity.” Under such conditions as these, the imagination was 
fettered and wholesome literature was impossible. As a reaction against this Puri¬ 
tan austerity came Unitarianism, which aimed to establish the dignity of man, and 
out of this came the further growth of the idealism or transcendentalism of Emer¬ 
son. It was this idea and these aspirations of the new theology that Emerson con¬ 
verted into literature. The indirect influence of his example on the writings of 
Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier and Lowell, and its direct influence on Thoreau, 
Hawthorne, Chas. A. Dana, Margaret Fuller, G. W. Curtis and others, formed the 
very foundation for the beautiful structure of our representative American literature. 

Emerson was profoundly a thinker who pondered the relation of man to God 
and to the universe. He conceived and taught the noblest ideals of virtue and a 
spiritual life. The profound study which Emerson devoted to his themes and his 
philosophic cast of mind made him a writer for scholars. He was a prophet who, 
without argument, announced truths which, by intuition, he seems to have perceived ; 
but the thought is often so shadowy that the ordinary reader fails to catch it. For 

316 



iO 























RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


317 

this reason he will never be like Longfellow or Whittier, a favorite with the masses. 
Let it not be understood, however, that all of Emerson’s writings are heavy or 
shadowy or difficult to understand. On the contrary, some of his poems are of a 
popular character and are easy of comprehension. For instance, “ The Hymn,” 
sung at the completion of the Concord Monument in 1836, was on every one’s lips 
at tlie time of the Centennial celebration, in 1876. His optimistic spirit is also beau¬ 
tifully and clearly expressed in the following stanza of his “ Voluntaries 

So nigh is grandeur to our dust, 

So near is God to man. 

When duty whispers low, “ Thou must,” 

The youth replies, “ I can.” 

These are but two instances of many that may be cited. No author is, perhaps, 
more enjoyed by those who understand him. He was a master of language. He 
never used the wrong word. His sentences are models. But he was not a logical 
or methodical writer. Every sentence stands by itself. His paragraj)hs might be 
arranged almost at random without essential loss to the essays. His philosophy con¬ 
sists largely in an array of golden sayings full of vital suggestions to help men 
make the best and most of themselves. Ide had no compact system of philosophy. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson was born in Boston, May 25,1803, within “A kite-string 
of the birth place of Benjamin Franklin” with whom he is frequently compared. 
The likeness, however, consists only in the fact that they were both decidedly repre¬ 
sentative Americans of a decidedly different type. Franklin was })rose, Emerson 
poetry; Franklin common sense, real; Emerson imaginative, ideal. In these oppo¬ 
site respects they both were equally representative of the highest type. Both were 
hopeful, kindly and shrewd. Both equally powerful in making, training and guid¬ 
ing the American people. 

In his eighth year young Emerson was sent to a grammar school, where he 
made such rapid progress, that he was soon able to enter a higher department 
known as a Latin school. His first attempts at writing were not the dull efforts 
of a school boy; but original poems which he read with real taste and feeling. 
He completed his course and graduated from Harvard College at eighteen. It is 
said that he was dull in mathematics and not above the average in his class in 
general standing; but he was widely read in literature, wliich put him far in 
advance, perhaps, of any young man of his age. After graduating, he taught school 
for five years in connection with his brother; but in 1825, gave it up for the minis¬ 
try. For a time he was pastor of a Unitarian Congregation in Boston; but his inde¬ 
pendent views were not in accordance with the doctrine of his church, therefore, he 
resigned in 1835, and retired to Concord, where he purchased a home near the 
spot on which the first battle of the Revolution was fought in 1775, which he 
commemorated in his own verse :— 

“ There first the embattled farmers stood, 

And fired the shot heard round the world.” 

In this city, Emerson resided until the day of his death, which occurred in Con¬ 
cord, April 27, 1882, in the seventy-eighth year of his age. 


RALPH WALDO EMERSOX. 



318 

It was in Concord that the poet and essayist, as the pro})het of the advanced 
thought of his age, gathered around him those leading spirits who were dissatislied 
witlAlie seltishness and shallowness of existing society, and, who had been led by 
him to dream of an ideal condition in which all should live as one lainily. Out ot 
this grew the famous “ Brook Farm Community.” This was not an original idea 
of Emerson’s, however. Coleridge and Southey, of England, had thought ot found¬ 
ing such a society in Pennsylvania, on the Susquehanna River. ^ Emerson regarded 
this community of interests as the clear teachings of Jesus Christ; and, to put into 
practical operation this idea, a farm of about two hundred aci*es was^ bought at 
Roxbury, Mass., and a stock company was formed under the title of “The Brook 
Farm Institution of Agriculture and Education.” About seventy members joined 


HOME OE RALPH WALDO EMERSON, CONCORD, MASS. 

in the enterprise. The ]u-inciple of the organization was cooperative, the members 
sharing the profits. Nathaniel IFnvthorne, the greatest of romancers, Chas. A. 
Dana, of the New York Tribune, Geo. W. Curtis, of Plarper’s Monthly, Henrv I). 
Thoreau, the poet naturalist, Amos Bron.son Alcott, the transcendental dreamei-and 
writer of strange shadowy sayings, and Margaret Fuller, the most learned woman of 
her age, were prominent members who removed to live on the farm, it is said tliat 
Emerson, himself, never really lived there; but was a member and frequent visitor, 
as were other prominent scholars of the same school. The project was a failure. 
After five years of experience, some of the houses were destroyed by fire, the entei- 
prise given up, and the membership scattered. 







RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


3^9 


But the Brook Farm served its purpose in literature by bringing together some 
of the best intellects in America, engaging them for five years in a common course 
of study, and stimulating a commerce of ideas. The breaking up of the community 
was better, perhaps, than its success would have been. It dis])ersed and scattered 
abroad the advanced thoughts of Emerson, and the doctrine of the society into ^ery 
profession. Instead of being confined to the little ])a})er, “The Dial,” (wliickjvaii- 
the organ of the society) its literature was transferred into a number of widely cir¬ 
culated national mediums. 

Thus, it will be seen how Emerson, the “Sage of Concord,” gathered around him 
and dominated, by his charming personality, his powerful mind, and his wholesome 
influence, some of the brightest minds that have figured in American literature; 
and how, through them, as well as his own writings, he has done so much, not only 
to lay the foundation of a new literature, but to mould and shape leading minds for 
generations to come. The Brook Farm idea was the uppermost thought in Edward 
Bellamy’s famous novel, “Looking Backward,” which created such a sensation in 
the reading world a few years since. The progressive thought of Emerson was 
father to the so-called “New Theology,” or “Higher Criticism,” of modern scholars 
and theologians. It is, perhaps, for the influence which Emerson has exerted, rather 
than his own works, that the literature of America is mostly indebted to him. It 
was through his efforts that the village of Concord has been made more famous in 
American letters than the city of New York. 

The charm of Emerson’s })ersonality has already been referred to,—and it is not 
strange that it should have been so great. His manhood, no less than his genius 
was worthy of admiration and of reverence. His life corresponded with his brave, 
cheerful and steadfast teachings. He “practiced what he j)reached.” His manners 
were so gentle, his nature so ti’ansparent, and his life so siugularly pure and happy, 
^hat he "was called, while he lived, “the good and great Emerson;” and, since his 
Vath, the memory of his life and manly example aie among the cherished posses¬ 
ions of our literature. 

J The reverence of his literary associates was little less than worship. Amos Bron- 
n Alcott,—father of the authoress, Louisa M. Alcott,—one of the Brook harm 
embers, though himself a ]U’ofound scholar and several years Emerson’s senior, 
iclared that it would have been his great misfortune to have lived Avithout knowing 
mei-son, whom he styled, “The magic minstrel and speaker! whose rhetoric, voiced 
as by organ stops, delivers the sentiment from his breast in cadences peculiar to 
himself; now hurling it forth on the ear, echoing them; then,—as his mood and 
matter invite it—dying like 

Music of mild lutes 
Or silver coated flutes. 

. . . such is the rhapsodist’s cunning in its structure and delivery.” 

Referring to his association with Emerson, the same Avriter acknowledges in a 
poem, Avritten after the sage’s death: 

Thy fellowship was my culture, noble friend ; 

By the hand thou took’st me, and didst condescend 
To brin" me straightway into thy fair guild ; 

And life-long hath it been high compliment 


320 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


By that to have been known, and thy friend styled, 
Given to rare thought and to good learning bent; 
Whilst in my straits an angel on me smiled. 

Permit me, then, thus honored, still to be 
A scholar in thy university. 


HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT, 1836. 



Y the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, 
Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And tired the shot heard round the world. 


On this green bank, by this soft stream. 
We set to day a votive stone. 

That memory may their deed redeem 
When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 


The foe long since in .silence slept; 

.\like the con(jueror silent sleeps; 

And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 


Spirit that made those heroes dare 
To die or leave their children free, 
Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 


THE RHODORA. 


N May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, 
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 
To please the desert and the sluggish brook ; 
The purple petals fallen in the pool 

Made the black waters with their beauty gay; 
Young Raphaki. might covet such a school; 

The lively show beguiled me from my way. 
Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why 


This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, 

Dear tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, 
Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 

Why, thou wert there, 0, rival of the rose! 

I never thought to ask, I never knew. 

But in my simple ignorance suppose 
The selfsame Power that brought me there, brought 
you. 



THE TRUE HERO. 

AN EXTRACT FROM “VOLUNTARIES.” 


Tlie following story is told of the manner in which the poem, “Voluntaries,’* obtained its title. In 1863, 
Mr. Emerson came to Boston and took a room in the Parker House, bringing with him the unfinished sketch 
of a few verses which he wished Mr. Fields, his publisher, to hear. He drew a small table to the centre 
of the room and read aloud the lines he proposed giving to the press. They were written on separate slips 
of paper which were flying loosely about the room. (Mr. Emerson frequently wrote in such independent 
paragraphs, that many of his poems and essays might be rearranged witliont doing them serious violence.) 
The question arose as to title of the verses read, when Mr. Fields suggested “ Voluntaires,’’ which was cor¬ 
dially accepted by Mr. Emerson. 


! WELTj for the fortunate soul 
Which Music’s wings unfold. 
Stealing away the memory 
Of .sorrows new and old ! 

Yet happier he whose inward sight. 
Stayed on his subtle thought. 

Shuts his sense on toys of time. 

To vacant bosoms brought; 

But best befriended of the God 
He who, in evil times. 

Warned by an inward voice. 


Heeds not the darkness and the dread. 
Biding by his rule and choice. 

Telling only the fiery thread. 

Leading over heroic ground 
Walled with immortal terror round. 

To the aim which him allures. 

And the sweet heaven his deed secures. 
Peril around all else appalling. 

Cannon in front and leaden rain, 

Him duty through the clarion calling 
To the van called not in vain. 






















Thoreavib 























RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


321 


Stainless soldier on the walls, 

Knowing this,—and knows no more,— 
Whoever tights, whoever falls, 

Justice conquers evermore. 

Justice after as before;— 

And he who battles on her side, 

God, though he were ten times slain, 
Crowns him victor glorified, 

Victor over death and pain 


Forever : but his erring foe. 
Self-assured that he prevails. 

Looks from his victim lying low, 
And sees aloft the red right arm 
Redress the eternal scales. 

He, the poor for whom angels foil. 
Blind w'ith pride and fooled by hate, 
Writhes within the dragon coil, 
Reserved to a speechless fate. 


MOUNTAIN AND SQUIRREL. 


HE mountain and the squirrel 
Had a quarrel; 

And the former called the latter “ Little 
Prig.” 

Bun replied; 

“ You are doubtless very big; 

But all sorts of things and weather 
Must be taken in together. 

To make up a year 
And a sphere. 


And I think it no disgrace 
To occupy my place. 

If I’m not so large as you. 

You are not so small as I, 

And not half so spry. 

I’ll not deny you make 
A very pretty squirrel track ; 

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; 
If I cannot carry forests on my back, 
Neither can you crack a nut.” 



THE SNOW STORM. 


B NNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky 
Arrives the snow, and driving o’er the 

Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven. 
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end. 

The sled and traveler stopp’d, the courier’s feet 
Delay’d, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
Around the radiant fire-place, enclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come see the north-w'ind’s masonry. 

Out of an unseen quarry evermore 
Furnish’d with tile, the fierce artificer 
Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. 


Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly 
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; 

A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; 

Fills up the farmer’s lane from w'all to w’all, 
Maugre the farmer’s sighs, and at the gate 
A tapering turret overtops the work. 

And when his hours are number’d, and the world 
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 

Leaves, when the sun appears, astonish’d Art 
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 

Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work. 

The frolic architecture of the snow. 


THE PROBLEM. 


LIKE a church, I like a cowl, 

I love a prophet of the soul. 

And on my heart monastic aisles 
Fall like sweet strains or pen.sive smiles. 
Yet not for all his faith can see 
Would I that cowled churchman be. 

Why should the vest on him allure, 

AVhich I could not on me endure ? 

Not from a vain or shallow thought 
His awful Jove young Phidias brought; 

Never from lips of cunning fell 


The thrilling Del{)hic oracle ; 

Out from the heart of nature roll’d 
The burdens of the Bible old ; 

The litanies of nations came. 

Like the volcano’s tongue of flame. 

Up from the burning core below,— 

The canticles of love and wo. 

The hand that rounded Peter’s dome, 

And groin'd the aisles of Christian Rome, 
Wrought in a sad sincerity. 

Himself from God he could not free ; 



21 















322 


RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 


He builded better than he know, 

The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Know’st thou what wove yon wood-bird’s nest 
Of leaves, and feathers from her breast; 

Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, 

Painting with morn each annual cell; 

Or how the sacred pine tree adds 
To her old leaves new myriads ? 

Such and so grew these holy piles. 

Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 

Earth proudly wears the Parthenon 
As the best gem upon her zone; 

And morning opes with haste her lids 
To gaze upon the Pyramids ; 

O’er England’s Abbeys bends the sky 
As on its friends with kindred eye; 

For, out of Thought’s interior sphere 
These wonders rose to upper air. 

And nature gladly gave them ])lace, 

Adopted them into her race. 

And granted them an equal date 
AVith Andes and with Ararat. 

These temples grew as grows the grass, 

Art might obey but not surpass. 

The passive Master lent his hand 


To the vast Soul that o’er him plann’d. 
And the same power that rear’d the shrine 
Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 

Ever the fiery l^enfacost 
Girds with one flame the countless host, 
Trances the heart through chanting choirs, 
And through the priest the mind inspires. 
The word unto the prophet spoken, 

Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 

The word by seers or sybils told 
In groves of oak or fanes of gold. 

Still floats upon the morning wind. 

Still whispers to the willing mind. 

One accent of the Holy Ghost 
The heedle.ss world hath never lo.st 
I know what say the Fathers wise,— 

The hook itself before me lies,—■ 

Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 

And he who blent both in his line. 

The younger Golden Lips or mines, 

Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines; 

His words are music in my ear, 

I see his cowled portrait dear. 

And yet, for all his faith could see, 

I would not the good bishop be. 


TRAAHILING. 


HAVE no churlish objection to the cir¬ 
cumnavigation of the globe, for the pur¬ 
poses of art, of study, and benevolence, 
so that the man is first domesticated, or does not 
go abroad with the hope of finding somewhat greater 
than he knows. He who travels to be amused, or 
to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels 
away from himself, and grows old even in youth 
among old things. In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will 
and mind have become old and dilapidated as they. 
He carries ruins to ruins. 

Traveling is a fool’s paradise. We owe to our 
first journeys the discovery that place is nothing. At 
home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be in¬ 
toxicated with beauty and lose my sadness. I pack 
my trunk, embrace my friends, and embark on the 
sea, and at last wake up at Naples, and there beside 
me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identi¬ 
cal that I fled from. I seek the Vatican and the 
palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and 
suggestions; but I am not intoxicated. My giant 
goes with me wherever I go. 

But the rage of traveling is itself only a symptom 
of a deeper unsoundness affecting the whole intel¬ 


lectual action. The intellect is vagabond, and the 
universal system of education fosters restlessness. 
Our minds travel when our bodies are forced to stay 
at home. We imitate; and what is imitation but 
the traveling of the mind ? Our houses are built 
with foreign taste ; our shelves are garnished with 
foreign ornaments; our opinions, our tastes, our 
whole minds, lean to and follow the past and the dis¬ 
tant as the eyes of a maid follow her mistress. The 
soul created the arts wherever they have flourished. 
It was in his own mind that the artist sought his 
model. It was an application of his own thought to 
the thing to be done and the conditions to be ob¬ 
served. And why need we copy the Doric or the 
Gothic model ? Beauty, convenience, grandeur of 
thought and quaint expression are as near to us as to 
any, and if the American artist will study with hope 
and love the preci.se thing to be done by him, con¬ 
sidering the climate, the soil, the length of the day, 
the wants of the people, the habit and form of 
the government, he will create a house in which all 
these will find them.selves fitted, and taste and senti¬ 
ment will be satisfied also. 







JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


“ THE POET OF FREEDOM.” 


N A solitary farm house near Haverhill, IMassaeliiisetts, in the valley 
of tlie Merrimae, on the 17th day of December, 1807, John Green- 
leaf Whittier was born. Within the same town, and xVmesbury, 
nearby, this kind and gentle man, whom all the world delights to 
honor for his simple and beautiful heart-songs, s])ent most of his life, 
dying at the ripe old age of nearly eighty-hve, in Danvers, Massa¬ 
chusetts, Septenil)er 7th, 1892. The oidy distinguishing features al)out his ancestors 
were that Thos. Whittier settled at Haverhill in 1047, and brought with him from 
Newberry the first hive of bees in the settlement, that they were all stuialy Quakers, 
lived simply, were friendly and freedom loving. The early surroundings of the 
farmer boy were simple and frugal. He has pictured them for us in his masterpiece, 
“Snowbound.” Poverty, the necessity of laboring upon the farm, the influence of 
Quaker traditions, his busy life, all conspired against his liberal education and literary 
culture. This limitation of knowledge is, however, at once to the masses his charm, 
and, to scholars, his one defect. It has led him to write, as no other poet could, 
upon the dear simplicity of New England farm life. He lias written from the heart 
and not from the head ; he has composed popular pastorals, not hymns of culture. 
Only such training as the district schools afforded, with a couple of years at Haver¬ 
hill Academy comprised his advantages in education. 

In referring to this alma mater in after years, under the spell of Ids muse, the 
poet thus writes ;— 

“Still sits the school house by the road, 

A ranged beggar sunning ; 

Around it still the sumachs grow 
x\nd black-berry vines are running. 

Within, the master’s desk is seen, 

Deep-scarred by raps official; 

1'he warping floor, the battered seats, 

The jack-knife carved initial.’’ 

It was natural for Whittier to become the poet of that combination of which 
Garrison was the apostle, and Phillips and Sumner the orators. His early jioems were 
published by Garrison in his paper, “ The Free Press,” the first one v/hen Whittier 

323 





















324 


JOHN GREEXLKAF WHITTIER. 


was nineteen years of age and Garrison himself little more than a boy. The farmer 
lad was elated when he found the verses which he had so timidly submitted in print 
with a friendly comment from the editor and a request for more. Garrison even 
visited Whittier’s parents and urged the importance of giving him a finished educa¬ 
tion. Thus he fell early under the spell of the great abolitionist and threw himself 
with all the ardor of his nature into the movement. His jioenis against slavery and 
disunion have a ringing zeal worthy of a Cromwell. “ They are,” declares one 
writer, “ like the sound of the trumpets blown before the walls of Jericho.” 

As a Quaker Whittier could not have been otherwise than an abolitionist, for that 
denomination had long since abolished slavery within its own communion. Most 
])rominent among his poems of freedom are “The Voice of Fi’eedom,” published in 
ltS49, “ The Panorama and Other Poems,” in 185G, “ In War Times,” in 1868, and 
“ Ichabod,” a pathetically kind yet severely stinging rebuke to Daniel Webster for 
his support of the Fugitive !81ave Law. Webster was right from the standpoint of 
law and the Constitution, but Whittier ai'gued from the standjioint of human right 
and liberty. “ Barbara Frietchie,”—while it is pronounced jmrely a fiction, as 
is also his poem about John Brown kissing the Negro baby on his way to the gal¬ 
lows,—is jierhaps the most widely quoted of his famous wai- })oems. 

Whittier also wrote extensively on subjects relating to New England history, 
witchcraft and colonial traditions. This group includes many of his best ballads, 
which have done in verse for colonial romance what Hawtliorne did in prose in his 
“Twice-Told Tales” and “Scarlet Letter.” It is these poems that have entitled 
Whittier to be called “ the greatest of American ballad writ(“rs.” Among them are 
to be found “ Mabel Martin,” “The Witch of Wenliam,” “Marguerite” and 
“Skipper Ireson’s Bide.” But it is perhaps in the third dej)artmentof his writings, 
namely, rural tales and idyls, that the poet is most widely known. These pastoral 
])oems contain the very heai-t and soul of New England. They are faithful and 
loving ])ictui-es of humble life, simple and peaceful in their subject and in their 
style. The masterpieces of this class are “ Snowbound,” “ Maud Muller,” “ The 
Barefoot Boy,” “Among the Hills,” “ Telling the Bees,” etc. The relation of these 
simple experiences of homely character has carried him to the hearts of the people 
and made him, next to Longfellow, the most ]) 0 ]ndar of American })oets. There is 
a pleasure and a satisfaction in the freshness of Whittier’s homely words and home- 
spun phrases, which we seek in vain in the polished art of cultivated masters. As 
a poet of nature he has painted the landscapes of New England as Bryant has the 
larger features of the continent. 

Whittier was never mai'i’ied and aside from a few exquisite verses he has given 
the public no clew to the romance of his youth. His home was presided over for 
many years by his sister Elizabeth, a most lovely and talented woman, for whom he 
cherished the deepest ahection, and he has written nothing more tOucliing than his 
tribute to her memory in “Snowbound.” The ])oet was shy and diflident among 
strangers and in formal society, but among his friends genial and delightful, with a 
fund of gentle and delicate humor which gave his conversation a great charm. 

Aside from his work as a poet Whittier wi'ote considerable jirose. His first volume 
was “Legends of New England,” published in 1881, consisting of prose and verse. 
Subsequent prose publications consisted of contributions to tlie slave controversy, 


JOHN (iREENLEAF WUfTTIEK. 


325 


biographical sketches of English and American reformers, studies of scenery and 
folE-lore of the Merrirnac valley. Those of greatest literary interest were the 
“Supernaturalisms of New England,” (1847,) and “Literary Recreations and 
Miscellanies,” (1852.) 

In 1836 AVhittier became secretary of the American Anti-Slavery Society, and 
he was all his life interested in public affairs, and wrote much for newspapers and 
periodicals. In 1838 he began to edit the “ Pennsylvania Freeman” in Philadel¬ 
phia, but in the following year his press was destroyed and his office burned by a 
pro-slavery mob, and he returned to New England, devoting the larger part of his 
life, aside from his anti-slavery political writings, to embalming its history and 
legends in his literature, and so com]detely has it been done by him it has been 
declared : “ If every other record of the early history and life of New England 
were lost the story could be constructed again from the pages of AVhittier. Traits, 
habits, fiicts, traditions, incidents—he holds a torch to the dark places and illumines 
them every one.” 

Mr. Whittier, perhaps, is the most peculiarly American poet of any that our country 
has produced. The woods and waterfowl of Bryant belong as much to one land 
as another ; and all the rest of our singers—Emerson, Longfellow, Lowell, and their 
brethren—with the single exception of Joaquin Miller, might as well have been born 
in the land of Shakespeare, Milton and Byron as their own. But Whittier is 
entirely a poet of his own soil. All through his verse we see the elements that 
created it, and it is interesting to trace his simple life, throughout, in his verses from 
the time, when like that urchin with whom be asserts brotherhood, and who has won 
all affections, he ate his 

“ milk and bread. 

I’ewter spooji and bowl of wood, 

On the door-stone frray and rude. 

O’er me, like a regal tent, 

Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent. 

Purple curtains fringed with gold 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold 

and, when a little older his fancy dwelt ujton the adventures of Chalkley—as 

‘‘ Following my plough by IMerrimac’s green shore 
His simple record I have pondered o’er 
With deep and quiet joy.” 

In these reveries, “ The Barefoot Boy ” and others, thousands of his countrymen 
have lived over their lives again. Every thing he wrote, to the New Englander has 
a sweet, warm familiar life about it. To them his writings are familiar photo¬ 
graphs, but they are also treasury houses of facts over which the future antiquarian 
will pour and gather all the close details of the pha.se of civilization that they give. 

The old Whittier homestead at Amesbury is now in charge of Mrs. Pickard, a 
neice of the poet. She has recently made certain changes in the house; but this 
has been done so wisely and cautiously that if the i)lace some day becomes a shrine 
—as it doubtless will—the restoration of the old estate will be a sinq^le matter. The 
library is left quite undisturbed, just as it wtis when Whittier died. 


326 


JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


MY PLAYMATE 


HE pines were dark on Pamoth Hill, 
IS Sol Their song was soft and low ; 

The blossoms in the sweet May wind 
Were falling like the snow. 

The blossoms drifted at our feet, 

The orchard birds sang clear ; 

The sweetest and the saddest day 
It seemed of all the year. 

For more to me than birds or flowers. 

My playmate left her home. 

And took with her the laughing spring. 
The music and the bloom. 

She ki.ssed the lips of kith and kin. 

She laid her hand in mine: 

What more could ask the bashful hoy 
Who fed her father’s kine ? 

She left us in the bloom of May: 

The constant years told o’er 

The seasons with as sweet May morns. 

But she came back no more. 

I walk with noiseless feet the round 
Of uneventful years; 

Still o’er and o’er 1 sow the Spring 
And reap the Autumn ears. 

She lives where all the golden year 
Her summer ro.ses blow ; 

The dusky children of the sun 
Before her come and go. 

There haply with her jeweled hands 
She smooths her silken gown,— 

No more the homespim lap wherein 
I shook the walnuts down. 


The wild grapes wait us by the brook. 

The brown nuts on the hill. 

And still the May-day flowers make sweet 
The woods of Follymill, 

The lilies blossom in the pond, 

'J’he birds build in the tree. 

The dark pines sing on Kamoth Hill 
'^I’he slow song of the sea. 

I wonder if she thinks of them. 

And how the old time seems,— 

If ever the pines of Kamoth wood 
Are sounding in her dreams. 

I see her face, I hear her voice; 

Does she remember mine? 

And what to her is now the boy 
Who fed her father’s kine ? 

What cares she that the orioles build 
For other eyes than ours,— 

That other hands with nuts are tilled, 

And other laps with flowers? 

0 playmate in the golden time! 

()ur mossy seat is green. 

Its friiiging violets blossom yet. 

The old trees o’er it lean. 

The winds so sweet with birch and fern 
A sweeter memory blow ; 

And there in spring the veeries sing 
The song of Ions: asto. 

And still the pines of Kamoth wood 
Are moaning like the sea,— 

The moaning of the sea of change 
Between myself and thee ! 


THE CHANGELING. 


OR the fiiirest maid in Hampton 
They needed not to search. 
Who saw young Anna Favor 
Come walking into church,— 

Or bringing from the meadows. 

At set of harvest-day, 

The frolic of the blackbirds, 

The sweetness ol‘ the hay. 


Now the weariest of all mothers. 

The saddest two-years bride, 

She scowls in the face of her husband. 
And spurns her child aside. 

“ Kake out the red coals, goodman. 

For there the child shall lie. 

Till the black witch comes to fetch her, 
And both up chimney fly. 
















JOHN GKEENLEAF WIIITTIEE. 


327 


“ It’s never my own little daughter, 

It’s never my own,” she said ; 

“ The witches have stolen my Anna, 

And left me an imp instead. 

“ 0, fair and sweet was my baby. 

Blue eyes, and ringlets of gold ; 

But this is ugly and wrinkled, 

Cross, and cunning, and old. 

“ I hate the touch of her fingers, 

I hate the feel of her skin ; 

It’s not the milk from my bosom. 

But my blood, that she sucks in. 

“ iMy face grows sharp with the torment; 
Look ! my arms are skin and bone !— 

Rake open the red coals, goodman. 

And the witch shall have her own. 

'' She’ll come when she hears it crying. 

In the shape of an owl or bat. 

And she’ll bring us our darling Anna 
In place of her screeching brat.” 

Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton, 

Laid his hand upon her head : 

“ Thy sorrow is great, 0 woman ! 

I sorrow with thee,” he said. 

“ The paths to trouble are many. 

And never but one sure way 

Leads out to the light beyond it: 

]My poor wife, let us pray.” 

Then he said to the great x\ll-Father, 
“Thy daughter is weak and blind ; 

Let her sight come back, and clothe her 
Once more in her right mind. 

“Lead her out of this evil shadow. 

Out of these fancies wild ; 

Let the holy love of the mother. 

Turn again to her child. 

“ Make her lips like the lips of Mary, 
Kissing her blessed Son ; 

Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus, 
Rest on her little one. 

“ Comfort the soul of thy handmaid, 

Open her prison door. 

And thine shall he all the glory 
And praise forevermore.” 


Then into the face of its mother. 

The baby looked up and smiled ; 
x\nd the cloud of her soul was lifted, 
x\nd she knew her little child. 

A beam of slant west sunshine 
Made the wan face almost fair. 

Lit the blue eyes’ patient wonder 
x\nd the rings of pale gold hair. 

She kissed it on lip and forehead. 

She kissed it on cheek and chin; 

And she bared her snow-white bosom 
To the lips so pale and thin. 

0, fair on her bridal morning 

Was the maid who blushed and smiled 
But fairer to Ezra Dalton 

Looked the mother of his child. 

With more than a lover’s fondness 
He stooped to her worn young face 
And the nursing child and the mother 
He folded in one embrace. 

“ Now mount and ride, my goodman 
As lovest thine own soul ! 

Woe’s me if my wicked fancies 
Be the death of Goody Cole !” 

His horse he saddled and bridled, 
x\nd into the night rode he,— 

Now through the great black woodland ; 
Now by the white-beached sea. 

He rode through the silent clearings. 

He came to the ferry wide. 

And thrice he called to the boatman 
Asleep on the other side. 

He set his horse to the river. 

He swam to Newburg town, 
x\nd he called up Justice Sewall 
In his nightcap and his gown. 

And the grave and worshipful justice. 
Upon whose soul be peace ! 

Set his name to the jailer’s warrant 
^ For Goody Cole’s release. 

Then through the night the hoof-beats 
Went sounding like a flail: 

And Goody Cole at cock crow 
Came forth from Ipswich jail. 






328 


JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


THE WORSHIP OF NATURE. 


HE ocean looketh up to heaven, 

As ’twere a living thing; 

The homage of its waves is given 
In ceaseless worshiping. 

They kneel upon the sloping sand, 

As bends the human knee, 

A beautiful and tireless band, 

The ])riesthood of the sea ! 

They pour the glittering treasures out 
Which in the deep have birth, 

And chant their awful hymns about 
The watching hills of earth. 

The green earth sends its incense up 
From every mountain-shrine, 

From every llower and dewy cup 
That greeteth the sunshine. 

The mists are lifted from the rills. 
Like the white wing of prayer ; 


They lean above the ancient hills. 

As doing homage there. 

The forest-tops are lowly cast 
O’er breezy hill and glen, 

As if a prayerful spirit pass’d 
On nature as on men. 

The clouds weep o’er the fallen world. 
E’en as repentant love ; 

Ere, to the biassed breeze unfurl’d, 
They fade in light above. 

The sky is as a temple’s arch, 

The blue and wavy air 

Is glorious with the spirit-march 
Of messengei-s at prayer. 

The gentle moon, the kindling sun. 
The many stars are given. 

As shrines to burn earth’s incense on. 
The altar-tires of Heaven ! 



THE BAREFOOT BOY. 


LESSINGS on thee, little man. 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
With thy turned up pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled tunes; 
With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 
With the sunshine on thy face. 
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace! 
From my heart I give thee joy ; 

I was once a barefoot boy. 

Prince thou art—the grown-up man. 
Only is republican. 

Let the million-dollared ride ! 

Barefoot, trudging at his side. 

Thou hast more than he can buy, 

In the reach of ear and eye: 

Outward sunshine, inward joy, 
Blessings on the barefoot boy. 

O ! for boyhood’s paitdess play, 

Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools ; 
Of the wild bee’s morning chase. 

Of the wild flower’s time and place. 
Flight of fowl, and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 

How the tortoise bears his shell, 

How the woodchuck digs his cell, 

And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
How the robin feeds her young, 


How the oriole’s nest is hung ; 

Where the whitest lilies blow, 

Where the freshest berries grow. 

Where the ground-nut trails its vine. 
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine; 
Of the black wasp’s cunning way. 

Mason of his walls of clay. 

And the architectural {dans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! 

For, eschewing books and tasks, 

Nature answers all he asks ; 

Hand in hand with her he walks. 

Part and parcel of her joy. 

Blessings on the barefoot boy. 

0 for boyhood’s time of June, 

Urowding years in one brief moon. 
When all things I heard or saw. 

Me, their master, waited for ! 

I was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees; 

For my sport the squirrel {dayed. 

Plied the snouted mole his spade; 

For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 

Laughed the brook for my delight. 
Through the day, and through the nigl 
Whispering at the garden wall. 

I'alked with me from fall to fall; 

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
Mine the walnut 8lo{)es beyond. 















JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


329 


Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of llespeiides! 

Still, as my horizon grew, 

Larger grew my riches too, 

All the world 1 saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy. 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

O, for festal dainties spread, 

Like my bowl of milk and bread. 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood. 

On the door-stone, gray and rude! 
O’er me like a regal tent. 

Cloudy ribbed, the sunset bent. 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra ; 

And, to light the noisy choir. 

Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 

I was monarch ; pomp and joy 


Waited on the barefoot boy ! 

Cheerily, then, my little man ! 

Live and laugh as boyhood can; 
Though the flinty slopes be hard. 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 

Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat; 

All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride, 

Lose the freedom of the sod. 

Like a colt's for work be shod. 

Made to tread the mills of toil. 

Up and down in ceaseless moil. 

Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground ; 

Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy. 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy! 


MAUD 



AUD MULLER, on a summer’s day. 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simj)le beauty and rustic health. 


MULLER. 

' He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 

Of the singing birds and the humming bees; 

I 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 


Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 


And jMaud forgot her briar-torn gown, 
And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 


But, when .she glanced to the far off town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a nameless longing filled her breast^— 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own. 

For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the .«hade 
Of the aj)ple-trees, to greet the maid. 

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow across the road. 

She st.ooped where the cool .spring bubbled up. 
And filled for him her small tin cup. 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

“ Thanks ! ” said the Judge, “ a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed.” 


And listened, while a jileased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

Maud Muller looked and sighed : “ Ah me ! 
That I the Judge’s bride might be! 

“ He would dre.ss me up in .silks so fine, 

And praise and toast uie at his wine. 

“ My father should wear a broadcloth coat; 

My brother shoidd sail a painted boat. 

“ I’d dress my mother so grand and gay. 

And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

“ And I’d feed the hungry and clothe the )ioor. 
And all should bless me who left our door.” 

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
And saw jMaud Muller standing still. 

“ A form more fiiir, a face more sweet, 

Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet. 









330 


JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


“ And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

“ Would she were mine, and I to-day, 

Like her, a harvester of hay: 

“ No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

“ But low of cattle, and song of birds. 

And health, and quiet, and loving words.” 

Blit he thought of his sisters, proud and cold. 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, clo.sing his heart, the Judge rode on. 

And ]Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. 

When he hummed in court an old love-tune; 

And the young girl mused be.side the well. 

Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

lie wedded a wife of richest dower. 

Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth’s bright glow, 
lie watched a picture come and go; 

And sweet Maud Muller’s hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft when the wine in his glass was red, 
lie longed for the wayside well instead; 

And clo.sed his eyes on his garnished rooms. 
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. 

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, 
“ Ah, that I were free again ! 

“ Free as when I rode that day, 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.” 

Fhe wedded a man unlearned and poor, 

And many children played round her door. 


But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain. 

Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new mown hay in the meadow' lot. 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the w'all. 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein. 

And gazing down with timid grace, 

She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow' kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned. 

The tallow' candle an astral burned; 

And for him who sat by the chimney lug. 
Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw. 

And joy was duty and love was law'. 

Then she took up her burden of life again. 
Saying only, “ It might have been.” 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all. 

Who vainly the dreams of youth recall; 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen. 

The saddest are these: It might have been ! 

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away! 


MEMORIES. 



BEATyriFUL and happy ,girl 

With step as soft as summer air, 

.\nd fre,sh young lip and brow of pearl 
Shadow’d by many a careless curl 
Of unconfined and flowing hair: 


A seeming child in every thing 

Save thoughtful brow, and rifiening 
charms. 

As nature wears the smile of spring 
When sinking into summer’s arms. 








JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


33 


A mind rejoicinp; in the light 

Which melted through its graceful bower, 
Leaf after leaf serenely bright 
And stainless in its holy white 
Unfolding like a morning flower: 

A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute 
With every breath of feeling woke. 

And, even when the tongue was mute. 

From eye and lip in music spoke. 

How thrills once more the lengthening chain 
Of memory at the thought of thee!— 

Old hopes which long in dust have lain. 

Old dreams come thronging back again. 

And boyhood lives again in me ; 

I feel its glow upon my cheek. 

Its fulness of the heart is mine, 

As when 1 lean’d to hear thee speak, 

Or raised my doubtful eye to thine. 

T hear again thy low replies, 

I feel thy arm within my own. 

And timidly again uprise 
The fringed lids of hazel eyes 

With soft brown tresses overblown. 

Ah ! memories of sweet summer eves. 

Of moonlit wave and willowy way. 

Of stars and flow^ers and dewy leaves. 

And .smiles and tones more dear than they! 

Ere this thy fpiiet eye hath smiled 
My picture of thy youth to see. 

When half a woman, half a child, 

Thy very artle.ssness beguiled. 

And folly’s self .seem’d wise in thee. 

T too can .smile, when o’er that hour 

The lights of memory backward stream. 
Yet feel the while that manhood’s power 
Is vainer than my boyhood’s dream. 


Years have pass’d on, and left their trace 
Of graver care and deeper thought; 
And unto me the calm, cold face 
Of manhood, and to thee the grace 
Of woman s pensive beauty brought. 

On life’s rough blasts for blame or praise 
The schoolboy’s name has widely flown; 
'I'hine in the green and quiet ways 
Of unobtrusive goodness known. 

And wider yet in thought and deed 
Our still diverging thoughts incline. 
Thine the Genevan’s sternest creed. 

While answers to my spirit’s need 
The Yorkshire peasant’s simple line. 

For thee the priestly rite and prayer. 

And holy day and solemn psalm. 

For me the silent reverence where 
My brethren gather, slow and calm. 

Yet hath thy spirit left on me 

An impress time has not worn out, 

And something of myself in thee, 

A shadow from the past, I see 

Lingering even yet thy way about; 

Not wholly can the heart unlearn 
That les.son of its better hours, 

Not yet has Time’s dull footstep worn 
To common dnst that path of flowers. 

Thus, while at times before our eye 
'file clouds about the present part. 

And, smiling through them, round us lie 
Soft hues of memory's morning sky— 

The Indian summer of the lieart. 

In secret sympathies of mind. 

In founts of feeling which retain 
Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find 
Our early dreams not wholly vain ! 


THE PRISONEH FOR DEBT. 


OOK on him—through his dungeon-grate. 
Feebly and cold, the morning light 
Comes stealing round him. dim and late, 
As if it loathed the sight. 

Reclining on his strawy bed. 

His hand upholds his drooping head— 

His bloodless cheek is .seam’d and hard, 
llnshorn his gray, neglected beard; 

And o’er his bony fingers flow 
His long, di.sheveird locks of snow. 

No grateful fire before him glows,— 

And yet the winter’s breath is chill: 


And o’er his half-clad person goes 
The frequent ague-thrill! 

Silent—save ever and anon, 

A .sound, half-murmur and half-groan, 
Forces ajiart the painful grip 
()f the old sufi’erer’s bearded lip: 

U, sad and crushing is the fate 
Of old age chain’d and desolate ! 

Just God ! why lies that old man there? 

A murderer shares his prison-bed. 
Whose eyeballs, through Ids horrid hair, 
Gleam on him fierce and red; 












332 


JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 


And the rude oath and heartletjS jeer 
Fall ever on his loathing ear, 

And, or in wakefulness or sleep 
Nerve, flesh, and flbre thrill and creep. 
Whene’er that ruffian’s tossing limb, 
Crimson’d with murder, touches him ! 

What has the gray-hair’d ])risoner done ? 

lias murder stain’d his hands with gore? 
Not so : his crime's a fouler one : 

God made the old man poor ! 

For this he shares a felon’s cell— 

The fittest earthly type of hell! 

For this—the boon for which he pour’d 
His young blood on the invader’s sword, 
And counted light the fearful cost— 

His blood-gain’d liberty is lost! 

And so, for such a ])lace of rest. 

Old prisoner, pour’d thy blood as rain 
On Concord’s field, and Bunker’s crest, 
And Saratoga’s plain ? 

Look forth, thou man of many scars. 
Through thy dim dungeon’s iron bars ! 

It must be joy, in sooth, to see 
Yon monument uprear’d to thee— 

Piled granite and a prison cell— 

The land repays thy service well! 

Go, ring the bells and fire the guns, 

And fling the starry banner out; 


Shout “ Freedom !” till your lisping ones 
Give back their cradle-shout: 

Let boasted eloquence declaim 
Of honor, liberty, and fame ; 

Still let the poet’s strain be heard. 

With “ glory ” for each second word. 

And everything with breath agree 
To praise, “ our glorious liberty !” 

And when the patriot cannon jars 
That prison’s cold and gloomy wall. 

And through its grates the stripes and stars 
Rise on the wind, and fall— 

Think ye that prisoner’s aged ear 
Kej<jices in the general cheer! 

Think ye his dim and failing eye 
Is kindled at your pageantry ? 

Sorrowing of soul, and chain’d of limb. 
What is your carnival to him ? 

Down with the law that binds him thus! 

Unworthy fieemen, let it find 
No refuge from the withering curse 
Of God and human kind ! 

Open the prisoner’s living tomb. 

And usher from its brooding gloom 
The victims of your savage code. 

To the free sun and air of God ! 

No longer dare as crime to brand. 

The chastening of the Almighty’s hand ! 


THE STORM. 


FROM -‘SNOW-BOUND.” 

Snow-bound is regarded as Whittier’s master-piece, as a descriptive and reminiscent poem. It is a New 
England Fireside Idyl, which in its faithfulness recalls, “The Winter Evening,” of Cowper, and Burns’ 
“Cotter’s Saturday Night” ; but in sweetness and animation, it is superior to either of these. Snow-bound 
is a faithful description""of a winter scene, familiar in the country surrounding Whittier’s home in Connect¬ 
icut. The complete poem is published in illustrated form by Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., by whose per- 
misssion this extract is here inserted. 



NWARNED by any sunset light 
'I’he gray day darkened into night, 

A night made hoary with the swarm 
And whirl-dance of the- blinding storm. 

As zigzag wavering to and fro 

Crossed and recrossed the winged snow ; 

And ere the early bedtime came 

The white drift piled the window-frame, 

And through the glass the clothes-line posts 

Looked in like tall and .sheeted ghosts. 


So all night long the storm roared on ; 
The morning broke without a sun ; 

In tiny spherule traced with lines 


Of Nature’s geometric signs. 

In starry flake, and pellicle. 

All day the hoary meteor fell; 

And, when the second morning shone. 

We looked upon a world unknown. 

On nothing we could call our own. 

Around the glistening wonder bent 
The blue walls of the firmament. 

No cloud above, no earth below,— 

A universe of sky and snow ! 

The old familiar sight of ours 

Took marvelous shapes; strange domes and towers 

Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood. 

Or garden wall, or belt of wood ; 












JUHX GUEEXLEAF WHITTIER. 


333 


A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, 
A fenceless drift what once was road ; 

The bridle-post an old man sat 

With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; 

The well-curb had a Chinese roof; 

And even the long sweep, high aloof, 

In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
Of Pisa’s leaning miracle. 

A prompt, decisive man, no breath 
Our father wasted : “ Boys, a path ! ” 

Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy 


Count such a summons less than joy ? ) 
Our buskins on our feet we drew ; 

With mittened hands, and caps drawn low. 
To guard our necks and ears from stiow, 
We cut the solid whiteness through. 

And, where the drift was deepest, made 
' A tunnel walled and overlaid 
With dazzling crystal; we had read 
; Of rare Aladdin’s wondrous cave. 

And to our own his name we gave, 

With many a wish the luck were ours 
To test his lamp’s supernal powers. 


ICHABOB. 


The following poem was ■w'ritten on hearing of Daniel Webster’s course in supporting the “Compromise 
Measure,’’including the “Fugitive Slave Law’’. This speech was delivered in the United States Senate 
on the 7ih of March, 1850, and greatly incensed the Abolitionists. Mr. Whittier, in common with many 
New Englanders, regarded it as the certain downfall of Mr. Webster. The lines are full of tender regret, 
deep grief and touching pathos. 


0 fallen ! so lost! the light withdrawn 
Which once he wore I 
The glory from his gray hairs gone 
For evermore! 

Bevile him not,—the Tempter hath 
A snare for all! 

And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath. 
Befit his fall. 

Oh ! dumb be passion’s stormy rage. 
When he who might 

Have lighted up and led his age 
Falls back in night. 

Scorn I would the angels laugh to mark 
A bright soul driven, 

Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark. 
From hope and heaven ? 

Let not the land, once proud of him, 
Insult him now. 


Nor brand with deeper shame his dim 
Dishonor’d brow. 

But let its humbled sons, instead, 

From sea to lake, 

A long lament, as for the dead. 

In sadness make. 

Of all we loved and honor’d, nought 
Save power remains,— 

A fallen angel’s pride of thought 
Still strong in chains. 

All else is gone ; from those great eyes 
The soul has fled : 

When faith is lost, when honor dies. 
The man is dead ! 

Then pay the reverence of old days 
To his dead fame; 

Walk backward with averted gaze. 

And hide the shame ! 















OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

POET, EISSAYIST AND HUMORIST. 

HIS distinguished author, known and admired throughout the Eng¬ 
lish speaking M’orld for the rich vein of plnlosophy, good fellowship 
ajul ]ningent humor that runs through his poetry and prose, Avas bon; 
in Cambridge, Massachussetts, August 29th, 1809, and died in Bos¬ 
ton, October 27th 1894, at the ri{)e old age of eighty-five—the “ last 
leaf on the tree” of that famous group, Whittier, Longfellow, Lowell, 
Emerson, Bryant, Poe, Willis, Hawthorne, Richard Henry Dana, Thoreau, Mar¬ 
garet Fuller and others who laid the foundation of our national literature, and with 
all of whom he was on intimate terms as a co-laborer at one time or another. 

Holmes graduated at Harvard College in 1829. His genial disposition made him 
a favorite with his fellows, to whom some of his best early poems are dedicated. 
One of his classmates said of him :—“He made you feel like you were the best fel¬ 
low in the world and he was the next best.” Benjamin Pierce, the astronomer, and 
Rev. iSamuel F. iSmith, the author of our National Hymn, w^ere his class-mates and 
have been wuttily described in his poem “ The Boys.” Dr. Holmes once humorously 
said that he supposed “ the three })eople wdiose poems M’ei'e best knowui were himself, 
one Smith and one Browm. As for himself, everybo<ly knew who he Avas ; the one 
Brown Avas author of ‘ I love to Steal a AVhile Away,’ and the one Smith was 
author of ‘ iMy Country ’Tis of Thee.’” 

After graduation Holmes studied medicine in the schools of Europe, but returned 
to finish his course and take his degree at Harvard. For nine years he w^as Profes¬ 
sor of Physiology and Anatomy at Dartmouth College, and in 1847 he accepted a 
similar position in Harvard University, to which his subsequent professional labors 
'were devoted. 41e also published several works on medicine, the last being a volume 
of medical es.savs, issued in 1888. 

Holmes’ first poetic publication was a small volume published in 18o(>, including 
three poems which still remain favorites, namely, “ My Aunt,” “The height of the 
Ridiculous ” and “The Last L(‘af on the Tree.” Other volumes of his poems w'ere 
issued in 1848, 18b(), 1861, 1875 and 1880. 

Dr. Holmes is popularly known as the poet of society, this title attaching because 
most of his productions w^ere called forth by special occasions. About one hundred 
of them -were prepared for his Harvard class re-unions and his fraternity (Phi Beta 
Kappa) social and anniversary entertainments. The poems which will preserve 
his fame, however, are those of a general interest, like “ Idie Deacon’s Masterpiece,’^ 

334 



























OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 


335 


in which the Yankee spirit speaks out, “ The Voiceless,” “The Living Temple,” 
“ The Chambered Nautilus,” in which we tind a truly exalted treatment of a lofty 
theme ; “ The Last Leaf on the Tree,” wliich is a remarkable combination of pathos 
and humor; “The Spectre Pig” and “The Ballad of an Oysterman,” showing to 
what extent he can play in real fun. In fact, Dr. Holmes was a many-sided man, 
and equally presentable on all sides. It has been truthfully said of him, “ No other 
American versifier has rhymed so easily and so gracefully. We might further add, 
no other in his personality, has been more universally esteemed and beloved by those 
who knew him. 

As a prose writer Holmes was equally famous. His “ Autocrat at the Breakfast 
Table,” “ Professor at the Breakfast Table ” and “ Poet at the Breakfast Table,” 
published respectively in 1858, 1859 and 1873, are everywhere known, and not to 
have read them is to have neglected something important in literature. The 
“ Autocrat ” is especially a masterpiece. An American boarding house with its 
typical characters forms the scene. The Autocrat is the hero, or rather leader, of 
the sparkling conversations which make up the threads of the book. Humor, satire 
and scholarship are skilfully mingled in its graceful literary formation. In this 
work will also be found “ The Wonderful One Horse Shay ” and “ The Chambered 
Nautilus,” two of the author’s best poems. 

Holmes wrote two novels, “ Elsie Venner” and “The Guardian Angel,” which 
in their romance rival the weirdness of Hawthorne and show his genius in 
this line of literature. “Mechanism in Thought and Morals” (1871), is a 
scholarly essay on the function of the brain. As a biographer Dr. Holmes has also 
given us excellent memoirs of John Lothrop Motley, the historian, and Ralph 
Waldo Emerson. Among his later products may be mentioned “ A Mortal Anti¬ 
pathy,” which appeared in 1885, and “One Hundred Days in Europe” (1887). 

Holmes was one of the projectors of “ The Atlantic ^Monthly,” which was started 
in 1857, in conjunction with Longfellow, Lowell and Emerson, Lowell being its 
editor. It was to this periodical that the “ Autocrat ” and “ The Professor at the 
Breakfast Table ” were contributed. These papers did much to secure the perman¬ 
ent fame of this magazine. It is said that its name was suggested by Holmes, and 
he is also credited with first attributing to Boston the distinction of being the “Hub 
of the solar system,” which he, with a mingling of humor and local pride, declared 
was “ located exactly at the Boston State House.” 

Unlike other authors, the subject of this sketch was very much himself at all 
times and under all conditions. Holmes the man, Holmes the ])rofessor of ])hysio- 
logy, the poet, })hilosopher, and essayist, were all one and the same genial soul. 
His was the most companionable of men, whose warm flow of fellowship and good 
cheer the winters of four score years and five could not chill,—“ The last Leaf on 
the Tree,” whose greenness the frost could not destroy. He passed away at the age 
of eighty-five still verdantly young in spirit, and the world will smile for many 
generations good naturedly because he lived. Such lives are a benediction to the race. 

Finally, to know Holmes’ writings well, is to be made acquainted with a singularly 
lovable nature. The charms of his personality are irresistible. Among the poor, 
among the literary, and among the society notables, he was ever the most welcome 
of guests. His geniality, humor, frank, hearty manliness, generosity and readiness 


33^ 


OLIVKR WEXDELL HOLMES. 


to amuse and be amused, together with an endless store pf anecdotes, his tact and 
union of synijiathy and originality, make him the best of companions for an hour 
or for a lifetime. His friendship is generous and enduring. All of these qualities 
of mind and heart are felt as the reader runs through his poems or his prose writ¬ 
ings. AVe feel that Holmes has lived widely and found life good. It is precisely 
for this ]-eason that the reading of his writings is a good tonic. It sends the blood 
more courageously thi-ough the veins. After reading Holmes, we feel that life is 
easier and simpler and a finer affair altogether and more worth living for than we 
had been wont to regard it. 

The following paragra|)h published in a current periodical shortly after the death 
of Mr. Holmes throws further light upon the personality of this distinguished 
author: 

“ Holmes himself must have harked back to forgotten ancestors for his brightness. 
11 is father was a dry as dust Congregational preacher, of whom some one said that 
he fed his people sawdust out of a spoon. But from his childhood Holmes was 
bright and popular. One of his college friends said of him at Harvard, that “ he 
made you think you were the best fellow in the world, and he was the next best.” 

l)r. Holmes was tirst and foremost a conversationalist. He talked even on paper, 
ddiere was never the dullness of the written word. His sentences whether in prose 
or verse were so full of color that they bore the charm of speech. 

One of his most quoted poems “ Dorothy Q,” is full of this sj)arkle, and carries 
a suggestion of his favorite theme : 


Grandmother’s mother ; her age I guess 
Thirteen summers, or something less ; 

Girlish bust, but womanly air ; 

Smooth, s(juare forehead with uprolled hair; 
Lips that lover has never kissed ; 

Taper fingers and slender wrist; 

Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade ; 

So they painted the little maid. 

^ * 

"What if a hundred years ago 
Those close shut lips had answered No, 
When forth the tremulous question came 
That cost the maiden her Norman name, 
And under the folds that looked so still 
The bodice swelled with the bosom’s thrill? 
Should I be I, or would it be 
One tenth another to nine tenths me ? 

















































OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 


337 


BILL AND JOE. 


OME, dear old comrade, you and I 

Will steal an hour from days gone b}'— 
The shining days when life was new, 
And all was bright as morning dew. 

The lusty days of long ago, 

When you were Bill and I was Joe. 

Your name may flaunt a titled trail. 

Proud as a cockerel’s rainbow tail; 

And mine as brief appendix wear 
As Tam O’Shanter’s luckless mare ; 

To-day, old friend, remember still 
That I am Joe and you are Bill. 

You’ve won the great world’s envied prize. 

And grand you look in peonle’s eyes. 

With IION. and LL.D., 

In big brave letters, fair to .see— 

Your fist, old fellow ! off they go !— 

IIow are you. Bill ? How are you, Joe ? 

You’ve won the judge’s ermine robe ; 

You’ve taught your name to half the globe; 
You’ve sung mankind a deathless strain ; 

You’ve made the dead past live again ; 

The world may call you what it will, 

But you and 1 are Joe and Bill. 

The chaffing young folks stare and say, 

“ See those old buffers, bent and gray ; 

They talk like fellows in their teens ! 
jMad, poor old boys ! That’s what it means”— 
And shake their heads; they little know 
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe— 


How Bill forgets Ins hour of pride. 

While Joe sits smiling at his side ; 

How Joe, in spite of time’s disguise. 

Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes— 
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill 
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 

Ah, pen.sive scholar ! what is fame ? 

A fitful tongue of leaping flame; 

A giddy whirlwind’s fickle gust, 

That lifts a pinch of mortal dust; 

A few swift years, and who can show 
Which dust was Bill, and which was tJoe? 

The weary idol takes his stand. 

Holds out his bruised and aching hand. 
While gaping thousands come and go— 
How vain it seems, this empty show — 

Till all at once his pulses thrill : 

’Tis poor old Joe’s “ God bless you. Bill!” 

And shall we breathe in happier spheres 
'fhe names that pleased our mortal ears,— 
In some sweet lull of harp and song. 

For earth-born spirits none too long. 

Just whispering of the world below. 

Where this was Bill, and that was Joe? 

No matter ; while our home is here 
No sounding name is half so dear ; 

When fades at length our lingering day. 
Who cares what pompous tombstones say ? 
Read on the hearts that love us still 
Ilic jacet Joe. Ilic jacet Bill. 



UNION AND LIBERTY. 


LAG of the heroes who left us their glory, 
Borne through their battle-fields’ thun¬ 
der and flame. 

Blazoned in song and illuminated in story. 
Wave o’er us all who inherit their fame. 

Up with our banner bright. 

Sjninkled with .starry light. 

Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore. 
While through the sounding sky 
Loud rings the Nation’s cry— 

Union AND Liherty ! One Evermore! 

Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation, 

Pride of her children, and honored afar, 

Let the wide beams of thy full constellation 
Scatter each cloud that would darken a star ! 
Empire unscejitred ! What foe .shall assail thee 
Bearing the standard of Liberty’s van ? 

22 


’flunk not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee, 
Striving with men for the birthright of man ! 

Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted. 

Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must 
draw. 

Then with the arms to thy million united. 

Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law ! 

Lord of the universe ! shield us and guide us. 

Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun ! 
Thou hast united us, who shall divide us? 

Keep us, 0 keep us the Many in One! 

Up with our banner bright. 

Sprinkled with .starry light. 

Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore. 
While through the sounding sky 
Loud rings the Nation’s cry— 

Union and Liberty! One Evermore! 














338 


OLIVEK WENDELL HOLMES. 


OLD IRON SIDES. 

The following poem has become a National Lyric. It was first printed in the “ Boston Daily Advertiser,” 
when the Frigate “ Constitution ” lay in the navy-yard at Charlestown.- The department had resolved 
upon breaking lier up; but she was preserved from this fate by the following verses, which ran through the 
newspapers with universal applause; and, according to “Benjamin’s American Monthly Magazine,” of 
January, 18 57, it was printed in the form of hand-bills, and circulated in the city of Washington . 

No more shall feel the victor’s tread, 

Or know the con(juer’(l knee ; 

The har{)ies of the shore shall jiluck 
The eagle of the sea ! 

0, better that her shatter’d hulk 
Should sink beneath the wave ; 

Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave; 

Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

• Set every threadbare sail. 

And give her to the god of storms,— 

The lightning and the gale ! 


Y, tear her tatter’d ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high, 

And many an eye has <lanced to see 
That banner in the sky ; 

Beneath it rung the battle-shout. 

And burst the cannon’s roar ; 

The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more! 

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood. 
Where knelt the vanquish’d foe. 

When winds were hurrying o’er the flood. 
And waves were white below. 



MY 

Y aunt! my dear unmarried aunt! 

Long years have o’er her flown ; 

Yet still she strains the aching clasp 
That binds her virgin zone ; 

I know it hurts her,—though she looks 
As cheerful as she can ; 

Her waist is ampler than her life. 

For life is but a span. 

My aunt, my poor deluded aunt! 

Her hair is almost gray ; 

Why will she train that winter curl 
In such a spring-like way ? 

How can she lay her glas.ses down. 

And say she reads as well, 

When, through a double convex lens, 

She just makes out to spell ? 

Her father—grandpapa! forgive 
This erring lip its smiles— 

Vow’d she would make the finest girl 
Within a hundred miles, 
lie sent her to a styli.sh school; 

Twas in her thirteenth .June; 

And with her, as the rules required, 

“ Two towels and a spoon.” 


AUNT. 

They braced my aunt against a board. 

To make her straight and tall; 

They laced her up, they starved her down, 

I To make her light and small; 

They pinch’d her 1‘eet, they singed her hair, 
They screw’d it up with jtins,— 

Oh, never mortal suffer’d more 
In penance for her sins. 

So, when my precious aunt was done. 

My grandsire brought her back 
(By daylight, lest some rabid youth 
Might follow on the track); 

“ Ah ! ” said my grandsire, as he shook 
Some powder in his pan, 

“ What could this lovely creature do 
Against a desperate man! ” 

Alas ! nor chariot, nor barouche. 

Nor bandit cavalcade 
Tore from the trembling father’s arms 
His all-accomplLsh’d maid. 

For her how happy had it been ! 

And Heaven had spared to me 
To see one .sad, ungather’d rose 
(Jn my ancestral tree. 



THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS. 



WROTE some lines once on a time 
In wondrous merry mood, 

And thought, as usual, men would say 
They were exceeding good. 


They were so queer, so very queer, 
I laugh'd as I would die; 

Albeit, in the general way, 

A sober man am I, 


















OLIVER WEXDELL HOLMES. 


339 


I call’d niy servant, and he came: 

How kind it was of him. 

To mind a slender mati like me, 

He of the mighty limb ! 

“ These to the printer,” I exclaim’d, 
And, in my humorous way, 

I added (as a trifling jest), 

“ There'll be the devil to pay.” 

He took the paper, and I watch'd. 
And saw him ]>eep within ; 

At the first line he read, his face 
Was all upon the grin. 


He read the next; the grin grew broad, 
And shot from ear to ear ; 

He read the third ; a chuckling noise 
1 now began to hear. 

The fourth ; he broke into a roar; 

The fifth, his waistband sjilit; 

The sixth, he burst five buttons off. 

And tumbled in a fit. 

Ten days and nights, with slee})less eye, 
I watch’d that wretched man. 

And since, I never dare to write 
As funny as I can. 


THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 


Ills is the shi{) of jiearl, which, poets feign. 
Sails the unshadow’d main,— 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purjiled 
wings 

In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings. 

And coral reefs lie bare. 

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming 
hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; 

Wreck’d is the ship of pearl! 

And every chamber’d cell. 

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell. 

As the frail tenant sha])ed his growing shell. 

Before thee lies reveal’d,— 

Its iris’d ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal’d ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 
That spread his lustrous coil; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 
lie left the past year’s dwelling for the new. 


Stole with soft step its shining archway through. 
Built up its idle door. 

Stretch’d in his last-found home, and knew the old 
no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
Child of the wandering sea. 

Cast from lier lap, forlorn ! 

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! 

While on mine ear it rings. 

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice 
that sings;— 

Build thee more stately mansions, 0 my soul. 

As the swift seasons roll! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past! 

Let each new teiufile, nobler than the last. 

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast. 

Till thou at length art free. 

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea! 



OLD AGE AND THE FKOFESSOR. 


Mr. Holmes is as famous for his prose as for his poetry. Tlie following sketches are characteristic of his 
happy and varied style. 


liD AGE, this is Mr. Professor; Mr. Pro¬ 
fessor, thi.s is Old Age. 

Old Age. —Mr. Professor, I hope to see 
you well. T have known you for some time, though 
I think you did not know me. Shall we walk down 
the street together ? 

Profes^aor (drawing back a little).—We can talk 
more quietly, perhaps, in my study. Will you tell 


me how it is you seem to be acquainted with every¬ 
body you are introduced to, though he evidently con¬ 
siders you an entire stranger ? 

Old Age. —I make it a rule never to force myself 
upon a person’s recognition until I have known him 
at least five gears. 

Professor .—Do you mean to say that you have 
known me so long as that? 










340 


OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 


Old Age .—I do. I left my card on you longer 
ago than that, but T am afraid you never read it; 
yet I see you have it with you. 

Professor .—Where ? 

Old Age. —There, between your eyebrows,—three 
straight lines running up and down ; all the probate 
courts know that token,—“ Old Age, his mark.’’ Put 
your forefinger on the inner end of one eyebrow, and 
your middle finger on tbe inner end of the other eye- j 
brow ; now separate the fingers, and you will .smooth 
out my sign manual; that’s the way you u.sed to look 
before T left my card on you. 

Professor .—What message do people generally send 
back when you first call on them '( 


Old Age.—Not at home. Then I leave a card 
and go. Next year T call ; get the same answer; 
leave another card. So for five or six—sometimes 
ten—years or more. At last, if they don’t let me in, 
I break in through the front door or the windows. 

We talked together in this way some time. Then 
Old Age said again,—Come, let us walk down the 
street together,—and ofi'ered me a cane,—an eye-glass? 
a tippet, and a pair of overshoes.—No, much obliged 
to you, said I. I don’t want those things, and I had 
a little rather talk with you here, privately, in my study. 
So I dressed myself up in a jaunty way and walked 
out alone ;—got a fall, caught a cold, was laid up with a 
lumbago, and had time to think over this whole matter. 


.MV LAST WALK WITH 

CAN’T .say just how many walks .die and . 
luOT ^1 I had taken before this one. 1 found 
the eftect of going out every morning was 
decidedly favorable on her health. Two pleasing 
dimples, the places for which were just marked when 
she came, played, shadowy, in her freshening cheeks 
when she .smiled and nodded good-morning to me 
from the .schoolhouse steps. * * * 

The schoohnistre.ss had tried life. Once in a while 
one meets with a .single soul greater than all the 
living pageant that ]ia.s.ses before it. As the jiale 
astronomer sits in his study with sunken eyes and i 
thin fingers, and weighs Uranus or Neptune as in a 
balance, so there are meek, slight women who have 
w'eighed all which this jdanetary life can otter, and 
hold it like a bauble in the jialm of their slender 
hands. This was one of them. Fortune had left 
her, sorrow' had bajitized her; the routine of labor 
and the loneline.ss of almost friendle.ss city-life were 
before her. Yet, as I looked upon her tranquil face, 
gradually regaining a cheerfulne.ss which was often 
sprightly, as .she became interested in the various 
matters W'e talked about and places we visited. I [ 
saw that eye and lip and every shifting lineament; 
were made for love,—uncomscious of their sweet office j 
as yet, and meeting the cold aspect of Duty with the | 
natural graces which w’ere meant for the rew'ard of 
nothing less than the Great Passion. 1 


THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

It was on the Common that we were walking. 
The oiall, or boulevard of our Common, you know, 
has various brajiches leading fntm it in different 
directions. One of these runs downward from oppo¬ 
site Joy Street southward across the whole length of 
the Common to Roylston Street. We called it the 
long path, and were fond of it. 

I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably 
robust habit) as we came op])osite the head of this 
path on that morning. I think 1 tried to speak twice 
without making myself distinctly audible. At la.st I 
got out the question,—Will you take the long path 
with me ? Certainly,—said the schoolmistress,—with 
much pleasure. Think,— 1 .said,—before you answer; 
if you take the long jiath with me now, I .shall in¬ 
terpret it that we are to part no more! The .school- 
mistre.ss stepped back with a sudden movement, as if 
an arrow had struck her. 

One of the long granite blocks u.sed as .seats was 
hard by,—tbe one you may still see clo.se by the 
Gingko-tree. Pray, sit down,—I said. No, no,—she 
answered softly,—I will walk the long path with 
you! 

The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walk¬ 
ing, arm in arm, about the middle of the long path, 
and .said, very charmingly,—“ Good-morning, my 
dears! ” 


















JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, 


POET, CRITIC, AND ESSAYIST. 


jHILE the popularity of Lowell lias not been so great as that of Whit¬ 
tier, Longfellow or Holmes, his poetry expresses a deeper thought 
and a truer culture than that of any one of these; or, indeed, of any 
other American poet, unless the exception be the ‘‘transcendental 
philosopher,” Emerson. As an anti-slavery poet, he was second 
only to Whittier. 

James Russell Lowell was born in Cambridge, Mass., Febi-uary 22, 1819, and 
died in the same city on August 12, 1891, in the seventy-third year of his age. He 
was the youngest son of the Rev. Charles Lowell, an eminent Congregational clergy¬ 
man, and was descended from the English settlei's of 1639. He entered Harvard 
in his seventeenth year and graduated in 1838, before he was twenty. Pie began 
to write verses early. In his junior year in college he wrote th^ anniversary poem, 
and, in his senior year, was editor of the college magazine. Subsequently, he 
studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1840; but, it seems, never entered 
upon the practice of his profession. If he did it is doubtful if he ever had even 
that Jirst client whom he afterwards described in a humorous sketch. 

His first appearance in literature was the publication, in 1839, of the class poem 
which he had written, but was not permitted to recite on account of his temporary 
suspension fi-om College for neglect of certain studies in the curriculum for which he 
had a distaste. In this poem he satirized the Abolitionists, and tlie tramvcendental 
school of writers, of which Emerson was the pro|)het and leader. This poem, while 
faulty, contained much sharp wit and an occasional burst of feeling which por¬ 
tended future ]u-ominence for its autlior. 

Two years later, in 1841, the first volume of Lowell’s verse appeai-ed, entitled 
“A Year’s Life.” This production was so different from that referred to above that 
critics would have regarded it as emanating from an entirely different mind had not 
the same name been attached to both. It illustrated entirely different feelings, 
thoughts and habits, evinced a complete change of heart and an entire revolution in 
his mode of thinking. His observing and suggestive imagination had caught the 
tone and spirit of the new and mystical philosophy, which Iiis first publication had 
ridiculed. Henceforth, he aimed to make Natui-e the representative and minister 
of his feelings and desires. Lowell was not alone, however, in showing how capri¬ 
cious a young author’s character may be. A notable ])arallel is found in the great 

3H 


































342 


JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


Englishman. Carlyle whose “Life of Schiller ” and his “ Sator Resartus,” are 
equally as unlike himself as were Lowell’s first two publications. In 1844, came 
another volume of poems, manifesting a still further mark of advancement. The 
longest in this collection—“ The Legend of Brittany ”—is, in imagination and arti.s- 
tic finish, one of his best and secured the first general consent for the author’s 
admission into the company of men of genius. 

J)uring this same year (1844) Mr. Lowell married the poetess, Maria 4Vhite, an 
ardent Abolitionist, whose anti-slavery convictions influenced his after career. Two 
of ]\Irs. Lowell’s poems, “The Alpine Sheep” and the “Morning Glory” are 
esjiecially popular. Lowell was devotedly attached to his singularly beautiful and 



HOME OP .TAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 


sympathetic poet wife and made her the subject of some of his most exquisite verses. 
They were both contributors to the “ Liberty Bell ” and “ Anti-slavery Standard, 
thus enjoying companionship in their labors. 

In 1845, appeared Lowell’s “Conversation on Some Old Poets,” consistino- of a 
series of criticisms, and discussions which evince a careful and delicate study. This 
was the beginning of the critical work in which he afterward became so fanious, that 
lie was styled “The First Critic of America.” 

Lowell was also a humorist by nature. His irrepressible perception of the comi¬ 
cal and the funny find expression everywhere, both in his poetry and jirose. His 











JA3IES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


343 


“Fable for Critics” was a delight to those whom he both satirized and criticised in a 
good-natured mannei-. Bryant, Poe, Hawthorne and Whittier, each are made to pass 
in procession for their share of criticism—which is as excellent as amusing—and 
Carlyle and Emerson are contrasted admirably. This poem, however, is faulty in 
execution and does not do its author justice. His masterpiece in humor is the famous 
“Biglow Papers.” These have been issued in two parts; the first being inspired by 
the Mexican War, and the latter by the Civil AVar between the states. Hosea Biglow, 
the counti-y Yankee philoso})her and supposed author of the j^apers, and tlie Rev. 
Homer Wilber, Ids learned commentator and pastor of the tirst church at Jaalem, 
reproduce the Yankee dialect, and portray the Yankee chai-acter as faithfully as 
they are amusing and funny to the reader. 

In 18do, Mrs. Lowell died, on the same night in which a daughter was born to the 
poet Longfellow, who was a neighbor and a close friend to Lowell, The coincident 
ins]dred Longfellow to write a beautiful poem, “The Two Angels,” which he sent 
to Mr. Lowell with his expression of sympathy : 

‘‘ ’Twas at thy door, 0 friend, and not at mine 
The an< 2 ;el with the amaranthine wreath, 

Pausing, descended, and with voice divine 
Uttered a word that had a sound like death. 

“ Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, 

A shaddow on those features fair and thin, 

And slowly, from that hushed and darkened room, 

Two angels issued, where but one went in. 

‘‘ Angels of life and death alike are Ilis; 

Without Ilis leave, they pass no threshold o’er: 

Who then would wish, or dare, believing this, 

Against Ilis messengers to shut the door?” 

Quite in contrast with Lowell, the humorist, is Lowell, the serious and dignified 
author. His patriotic )>oems display a courage and manliness in adhering to the 
rig-ht and cover a wide range in history. But it is in his descrijitions of nature 
that his imagination manifests its greatest range of subtiUy and power. “The 
Vision of Bir Ltmnfal” is, perhaps, more remarkable for its descriptions of the 
months of June and December than for the beautiful story it tells of the search for 
the “Holy Grail” (the cup) which held the wine which Christ and the Apostles 
drank at the last su]iper. 

Lowell’s ])rose writings consist of his contributions to magazines, which were 
afterwards gathered in book form, and his ])ublic addresses and his political essays. 
He was naturally a poet, and his prose writings were the outgrowth of his daily 
labors, rather than a work of choice. As a professor of modern languages in Har¬ 
vard College (in which position he succeeded the poet Longfellow); as editor of the 
“Atlantic'^ronthlv,” on which duty he entered at the beginning of that magazine, 
in 1857, his editorial work on the “North American Review” from I 860 to 1872, 
together with his political ministry in Bpain and Lnglaiid, gave him, he sa^t?, quite 
enough 2 ')rosaic work to do.” 


344 


JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


It was to magazines that lie first contributed “ Fireside Travels,” “ Among My 
Books,” and “ My Study Window,” wliicli have been since published in book form. 
These publications cover a wide held of literature and im])ress the reader with a 
spirit of inspiration and enthusiasm. Lowell, like Emerson and Longfellow, was 
an optimist of the most pronounced type. In none of his writing does he express 
a syllable of discontent or despair. His “ Pictures from Appledore ” and “ Under 
the Willows ” are not more sym])athetic and spontaneous than his faith in mankind, 
his healthful nature, and his rosy and joyful hope of the future. 

In 1877, Mr. Lowell was appointed minister to iSjiain by President Hayes, and, 
in 1880, was transferred, in the same capacity to London. This ])Osition he 
resigned in 1885 and returned to America to resume his lectures in Harvard Uni¬ 
versity. While in England, Mr. Lowell was lionized as no other minister at that 
time had been and was in great demand as a public lecturei’ and speaker. Oliver 
Wendell Holmes thus writes of his jiopularity with the “ British Cousins:” 

By what enchantment, what alluring arts. 

Uur truthful James led captive British hearts,— 

* ^ 

Ijike honest Yankees w'e can simply guess; 

But that he did it, all must needs confess.” 

He delivered a memorial address at the unveiling of the bust of the poet Coleridge 
in Westminster Abbey. On his return to Ameilca, this oration was included with 
others in his volume entitled “Democracy and Other Addresses.” (1887). 

As a public man, a representative of the United States Government, in foreign 
ports, he upheld the noblest ideals of the republic. He taught the jmrest lessons of 
patriotism—ever preferring his country to his party—and has criticised, with 
energy, and indignation, political evils and selfishness in public service, regarding 
these as the most dangerous elements threatening the dignity and honor of American 
citizenship. 

Among scholars, Lowell, next to Emerson, is regarded the profoundest of American 
poets; and, as the public becomes more generally educated, it is certain that he will 
grow in popular favor. To tliose who uiiderstaud and catch the spirit of the man, 
noticeable characteilstics of his writings are its richness and variety. He is at once, 
a humorist, a philosopher, and a dialectic verse writer, an essayist, a critic, and a 
masterful singer of songs of freedom as well as of the most majestic memorial odes. 

Unlike Longfellow and Holmes, Lowell never wrote a novel ; but his insight into 
character and ability to delineate it would have made it entirely possible for him to 
assay, successfully, this branch of literature. This power is seen especially in his 
“Biglow Papers” as well as in other of his character sketches. The last of 
Lowell’s works published was “ Latest Literary Essays and Addresses,” issued in 
1892, after his death. 


JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


345 


THE (JOTIIIC GENIUS. 


FROM “THE CATHEDRAL.” 



SEEM to have heard it said by learned folk, 
Who drench you with aesthetics till you feel 
As if all beauty were a ghastly bore, 

The faucet to let loose a wash of words, 
That Gothic is not Grecian, therefore worse; 

But, being convinced by much experiment 
How little inventiveness there is in man. 

Grave copier of copies, I give thanks 
For a new relish, careless to inquire 
My pleasure’s pedigree, if so it please— 

Nobly I mean, nor renegade to art. 

The Grecian gluts me with its peifectness, 
Unanswerable as Euclid, self-contained. 

The one thing finished in this hasty world— 

For ever finished, though the barbarous pit. 
Fanatical on hearsay, stamp and shout 
As if a miracle could be encored. 


But ah ! this other, this that never ends. 

Still climbing, luring Fancy still to climb. 

As full of morals half divined as life. 

Graceful, grotesque, with ever-new surprise 
Of hazardous caprices sure to please; 

Heavy as nightmare, airy-light as fern. 
Imagination’s very self in stone ! 

With one long sigh of infinite release 
From pedantries past, present, or to come, 

I looked, and owned myself a happy Goth. 

Your blood is mine, ye architects of dream, 
Builders of aspiration incomjjlete. 

So more consummate, souls self-confident, 

Who felt your own thought worthy of record 
In monumental pomp ! No Grecian drop 
Rebukes these veins that leap with kindred thrill, 
After long exile, to the mother tongue. 


N his tower sat the poet 

Gazing on the roaring sea, 

“ Take this rose,” he sighed, “and throw it 
Where there’s none that loveth me. 

On the rock the billow bursteth. 

And sinks back into the seas. 

But in vain my spirit thirsteth 
So to burst and be at ease. 

Take, 0 sea ! the tender blossom 
That hath lain against my breast; 

On thy black and angry bosom 
It will find a surer rest, 

Life is vain, and love is hollow. 

Ugly death stands there behind. 

Hate, and scorn, and hunger follow 
Him that toileth for his kind.” 

Forth into the night he hurled it. 

And with bitter smile did mark 
How the surly tempest whirled it 
Swift into the hungry dark. 

Foam and spray drive back tf) leeward. 

And the gale, with dreary moan. 

Drifts the helpless blossom seaward. 

Through the breaking, all alone. 

II. 

Stands a maiden, on the morrow. 

Musing by the wave-beat strand, 


ROSE. 

Half in hope, and half in sorrow 
Tracing words upon the sand : 

“ Shall I ever then behold him 

Who hath been my life so long,— 
Ever to this sick heart fold him,— 
Be the spirit of his song ? 

“ Touch not, sea, the blessed letters 
I have traced upon thy shore. 
Spare his name whose spirit fetters 
Mine with love forever more ! ” 
Swells the tide and overflows it, 

But with omen pure and meet. 
Brings a little rose and throws it 
Humbly at the maiden’s feet. 

Full of bliss she takes the token. 
And, upon her snowy breast. 
Soothes the ruffled petals broken 
With the ocean’s fierce unrest. 

“ Love is thine, O heart! and surely 
Peace shall also be thine own, 

For the heart that trusteth purely 
Never long can pine alone.” 

III. 

In his tower sits the poet. 

Blisses new, and strange to him 
Fill his heart and overflow it 
With a wonder sweet and dim. 














346 


JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


Up the beach the ocean slideth 
With a whisper of delight, 

And the moon in silence glideth 

Through the peaceful blue of night. 

Rippling o’er the poet’s shoulder 
Flows a maiden’s golden hair, 
IMaiden lips, with love grown bolder, 
Kiss his moonlit forehead bare. 

“ Life is joy, and love is power. 

Death all fetters doth unbind, 


Strength and wisdom only flower 
When we toil for all our kind. 

Hope is truth, the future giveth 
More than present takes away. 
And the soul forever liveth 

Nearer God from day to day.” 
Not a word the maiden muttered. 
Fullest hearts are slow to speak. 
But a withered rose-leaf fluttered 
Down upon the poet’s cheek. 


THE HERITAGE. 


HE rich man’s son inherits lands, 

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold. 
And he inherits soft white hands. 

And tender flesh that fears the cold. 
Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man’s son inherits cares ; 

The bank may break, the factory burn, 

A breath may burst his bubble shares. 

And soft, white hands could hardly earn 
A living that would serve his turn ; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man’s son inherits wants, 

llis stomach craves for dainty fare; . 

Witli sated heart he hears the pants 
Of toiling hinds with brown arms hare, 
y\nd wearies in his easy chair; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

One .scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit? 

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 

A hardy frame, a hardier .spirit; 

King of two hands, he does his part 
In every useful toil and art ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

AVhat doth the poor man’s son itdierit ? 

Wishes o’erjoy’d with humble things, 

A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit. 


Content that from employment springs, 
A heart that in his labor sings; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man’s son inherit ? 

A patience learn’d of being poor. 
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, 

A fellow-feeling that is sure 
To make the outcast bless his door; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

0 rich man’s son ! there is a toil. 

That with all others level stands; 

Large charity doth never soil. 

But only whiten, soft, white hands,— 
This is the best crop from thy lands; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

Worth being rich to hold in fee. 

0 poor man’s son ! scorn not thy state; 

There is worse weariness than thine. 

In merely being rich and great; 

Toil only gives the soul to shine, 
x\nd makes rest fragrant and benign; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

Worth being poor to hold in fee. 

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod. 

Are equal in the earth at last; 

Both, children of the same dear God, 
Prove title to your heirship vast 
By record of a well-fill’d past; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

Well worth a life to hold in fee. 











JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


34 


ACT FOR TRUTH. 


HE busy world shoves angrily aside 

The man who stands with arms akimbo set, 
Until occasion tells him what to do ; 

And he who waits to have his task mark’d 
out 

Shall die and leave his errand unfulfill’d. 

Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds; 

Reason and Government, like two broad seas. 

Yearn for each other with outstretched arms 
Across this narrow i.sthmns of the throne. 

And roll their white surf higher every day. 

One age moves onward, and the next builds up 
Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood 
The rude log huts of those who tamed the wild, 
Rearing fr(tm out the forests they had fell’d 
The goodly framework of a fairer state; 

The builder’s trowel and the .settler’s axe 
Are seldom wielded by the selfsame hand; 

Ours is the harder task, yet not the less 
Shall we receive the blessing for our toil 
From the choice spirits of the after-time. 

The field lies wide before us, where to reap 
The easy harvest of a deathless name, 

Though with no better sickles than our swords. 

My soul is not a palace of the past. 

Where outworn creeds, like Rome’s gray senate, 
quake. 

Hearing afar the \'andars trumpet hoarse. 

That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit. 

The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change ; 

Then let it come ; I have no dread of what 


Is call’d for by the instinct of mankind ; 

Nor think 1 that God’s world will fall apart 
Because we tear a parchment more or less. 

Truth is eternal, but her effluence. 

With endless change, is fitted to the hour ; 

Her mirror is turn'd forward, to reflect 
The promise of the future, not the past. 

He who wmuld win the name of truly great 
Must understand his own age and the next, 

And make the present ready to fulfil 
Its prophecy, and with the future merge 
Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave. 

The future works out great men’s destinies ; 

The present is enough for common souls, 

Who, never looking forward, are indeed 
Mere clay wherein the footprints of their age 
Are petrified forever: better those 
Who lead the blind old giant by the hand 
From out the pathless desert where he gropes. 
And set him onward in his darksome way. 

I do not fear to follow' out the truth. 

Albeit along the precipice’s edge. 

Let us speak plain : there is more force in namef 
Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep 
Its throne a whole age longer if it skulk 
Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name. 

Let us all call tyrants ti/i-aiits, and maintain 
That only freedom comes by grace of God, 

And all that comes not by His grace must fall; 
For men in earnest have no time to waste 
In patching 6g-leaves for the naked truth. 



THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 


HE snow had begun in the gloaming, 
And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 
With a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 

Atul the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 

From .sheds new-roofed with Carrara 
(^ame Chanticleer’s muffled crow. 

The stiff rails were .softened to .swan’s down. 
And still fluttered down the snow. 

I stood and watched hy the window 
The noiseless work of the sky. 

And the sudden flurries of .snow-birds. 

Like brown leaves whirling by. 


I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
Where a little headstone stood ; 

How the flakes were folding it gently. 

As did robins the babes in the wood. 

Up spoke our own little Mabel, 

Saying, “ Father, who makes it snow?” 

And I told of (he good All-father 
Who cares for us here below. 

Again I looked at the snow-fall 
And thought of the leaden sky 

That arched o’er our first great sorrow, 
Wiicn that mound was heaped so high. 

I remembered the gradual patience 
That fell from that cloud like snow, 

Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar of our deep-plunged woe. 


















348 


JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 


And again to the child I whispered, 
“ The snow that husheth all, 
Darling, the merciful Father 
Alone can make it fall!” 


Then, with eyes that saw not, 1 kissed her ^ 
And she, kissing back, could not know 
That my kiss was given to her sister. 

Folded close under deepening snow. 


FOURTH OF JULY ODE. 


I. 

UR fathers fought for liberty. 

They struggled long and well. 
History of their deeds can tell— 
But did they leave us free ? 

II. 

Are we free from vanity, 

Free from pride, and free fnm self, 
Free from love of power and pelf. 
From everything that’s beggarly ? 

III. 

Are we free from stubborn will, 

From low hate and malice small. 

From opinion’s tyrant thrall ? 

.\re none of us our own slaves still ? 


IV. 

Are we free to speak our thought, 
I'o be happy, and be poor. 

Free to enter Heaven’s door, 

To live and labor as we ought ? 

V. 

Are we then made free at last 
From the fear of what men say. 
Free to reverence To-day, 

Free from the slavery of the Past? 

VI. 

Our fathers fought for liberty, 

They struggled long and well, 
History of their deeds can tell— 
But ourselves must set us free. 



THE DANDELION. 


P^^^EAR common flower, that grow’st beside the 

Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold. 
^ First pledge of blithesome May, 

Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold. 

High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found. 

Which not the rich earth’s ample round 
May match in wealth—thou art more dear to me 
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 

Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow 
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, 

Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease; 

’Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now 
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 

Though most hearts never understand 
To take it at God’s value, but pass by 
The offer'd wealth with unrewarded eye. 

Thou art my trophies and mine Italy; 

To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; 

The eyes thou givest me 
Are in the heart, and heed not space or time; 

Not in mid .Tune the golden-cuirass'd bee 
Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment 
In the white lily’s breezy tint. 

His conquer’d Sybaris, than I, when first 
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 


Then think I of deep shadows on the grass— 

Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze. 

Where, as the breezes pass. 

The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways— 

Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass. 

Or whiten in the wind—of waters blue 

That from the distance sparkle through 
Some woodland gap—and of a sky above, 

Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. 

My childhood’s earlie.st thoughts are link’d with 
thee; 

The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song, 

AVho, from the dark old tree 
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long. 

And I, secure in childish piety. 

Listen’d as if I heard an angel sing 

With news from heaven, which he did bring 
Fresh every day to my untainted ears, 

AVhen birds and flowers and I were happy peers. 

How like a prodigal doth Nature seem. 

When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! 

Thou teacliest me to deem 
More sacredlj- of every human heart. 

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret .show, 
Did we but pay tbe love we owe. 

And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look 
On all these living pages of God’s book. 













. ATI i - i.,-, i — -■ - - ■ ■■' — - - -- -- — — ■ — -..■>• ^ ^ : ■■ : ■ ' • .. 



WELL-KNOWN WESTERN POETS. 


sdf.v -.-T^- 












JAMP:s WHITCOMB KILEY. 
“thk hoosier poet.” 


;0 poet of the modern times has obtained a gireater popularity with the 
masses tlian the Indianian, James Whitcomb Riley, who has recently 
! obtained the rank of a National Poet, and whose temporary hold 
j upon the people equals, if it does not exceed, that of any living 
i verse writer. The productions of this author have crystallized 
certain features of life that will grow in value as time goes by. 
In reading “The Old Swimmin’ Hole,” one almost feels the cool I'efreshing water 
touch the thirsty skin. And such poems as “Griggsby’s Station,” “Airly Days,” 
“When the Frost is on the Punkin,” “That Old Sweetheart of IMine,” and others, 
go straight to the heai’t of the reader with a mixture of pleasant recollections, ten¬ 
derness, humor, and sincerity, that is most delightful in its ehect. 

]\Ir. Riley is particularly a poet of the country people. Though he was not 
raised on a farm himself, he had so completely imbibed its atmos))here that his 
readers would scarcely believe he was not the veritable Benjamin F. Johnston, the 
simple-hearted Boone County farmer, whom he honored with the authorshi]i of his 
early poems. To every man who has been a country boy and “played hookey” on 
the "school-master to go swimming or fishing or bird-ne.sting or stealing water-melons, 
or sim])lv to lie on the orchard grass, many of Riley’s poems come as an echo from 
his own experiences, bringing a vivid and pleasingly melodious retrospect of the past. 

Mr. Riley’s “Child Verses” are equally as famous. There is an artless catching 
sing-song in his verses, not uidike the jingle of the “Mother Goose Melodies.” 
Es|)ecially fine in their faithfulness to child-life, and in easy rythm, are the pieces 
describing “Little Orphant Allie” and “The Ragged Man.” 

An’ Jiittle Orphant Allie says, when the blaze is blue, 

An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo! 

An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray. 

An’ the lightnin’-bug in dew is all squenched away,— 

You better mind yer parents and yer teacher fond an’ dear, 

An’ cherish them ’at loves you and dry the orphant’s tear. 

An’ he’p the poor an’ needy ones ’at cluster all about, 

Er the gobble-uns ’ll git you 

Ef you—don’t— watch —-out. 

James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield, Indiana, in 18oJ. His father 
was a Quaker, and a leading attorney of that place, and desired to make a lawyer 

349 





















350 


JAMES WHITCOMB BILEY. 


of his son; but Mr. Riley tells us, “AVhenever I picked up ‘Blackstone’ or‘Green- 
leaf,’ my wits went to wool-gathering, and my father was soon convinced that his hopes 
of my achieving greatness at the bar were doomed to disappointment.” Referring to 
his education, the poet further says, “ I never had much schooling, and what 1 did 
get, I believe did me little good. I never could master mathematics, and history 
was a dull and juiceless thing to me ; but I always was fond of reading in a random 
M’ay, and took naturally to the theatrical. I cannot remember when 1 was not a 
declaimer, and I began to rhyme almost, as soon as 1 could talk.” 

Riley’s first occupation was as a sign ])ainter for a patent-medicine man, with 
whom he traveled fora year. On leaving this employment he organized a comjiany 
of sign painters, with whom he traveled over the country giving musical entertain¬ 
ments and painting signs. In referring to this he says, All the members of the 
company were good musicians as well as painters, and we used to drum up trade 
with our music. We kept at it for three or four years, made plenty of money, had 
lots of fun, and did no harm to ourselves or any one else. Of course, during this 
sign painting period, I was writing verses all the time, and finally after the Gra])hic 
Company’s last trip I secured a position on the weekly ])aper at Anderson.” For 
many years Riley endeavored to have his verses published in vailous magazines, 
“ sending them from one to another,” he says, “ to get them promptly back again.” 
Finally, he sent some verses to the ]ioet Longfellow, who congratulated him warmly, 
as did also Mr. Lowell, to whose “ New England Dialectic Poems ” Mr. Riley’s 
“Hoosier Rhymes” bore a striking resemblance. From this time forward his 
success was assured, and, instead of hunting publishers, he has been kept more than 
busy in supplying their eager demands uj)on his pen. 

Mr. Riley’s methods of work are peculiar to himself. His poems are com])Osed 
as he travels or goes about the streets, and, once they are thought out, he immediately 
stops and transfers them to paper. But he must work as the mood or muse moves 
him. He cannot be driven. On this [)oint he says of himself, “ It is almost im])Os- 
sible for me to do good work on orders. If I have agreed to comjdete a poem at a 
certain time, I cannot do it at all; but when I can write without considering the 
future, I get along much better.” He further says, with reference to writing dialect, 
that it is not his preference to do so. He prefers the recognized poetic form ; “but,” 
he adds, “dialectic verse is natural and gains added charm from its very common¬ 
placeness. If truth and depiction of nature are wanted, and dialect is a touch of 
nature, then it should not be disregarded. I follow nature as closely as I can, and 
try to make my ])eople think and speak as they do in real life, and such success as 
I have achieved is due to this.” 

The first published work of the author was “The Old Swimmin’ Hole” and 
“’Level! More Poems,” which appeared in 1883. Since that date he published a 
number of volumes. Among the most popular may be mentioned, “ Armazindy,” 
which contains some of his best dialect and serious verses, including the famous Poe 
Poem, “ Leonainie,” written and ]!ublished in early life as one of Uie lost poems of 
Poe, and on which he deceived even Poe’s biographers, so accurate was he in 
mimicking the style of the author of the “Raven; ” “Neighborly Poems;” “Sketches 
in Prose,” originally published as “ The Boss Girl and Other Stories;” “After¬ 
whiles,” comprising sixty-two poems and sonnets, serious, i)athetic, humorous and 


JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 


351 


dialectic; “ Pipes O’ Pan,” containing five sketches and fifty poems; “ Rhymes 
of Childliood;” “Flying Islands of the Night,” a weird and grotesque drama in 
verse; “ Green Fields and Running Brooks,” comprising one hundred and two 
})oems and sonnets, dialectic, humorous and serious. 

The poet has never married. He makes liis home in Indianapolis, Indiana, with 
his sister, where his surroundings are of the most jileasant nature ; and he is scarcely 
less a favorite with the children of the neighborhood than was the renownetl child 
j)oet, Eugene Field, at his home. The devotion of Mr. Riley to his aged })arents, 
whose last days he made the happiest and brightest of their lives, has been repeatedly 
commented upon in the current notices of the poet. IMr. Riley has ])ersonally met 
more of the American people, perhaps, than any other living poet. He is constantly 
“ on the wing.” For about eight months out of every twelve for the ])ast several 
years he has been on the lecture platform, and there are few of the more intelligent 
class of people in the leading cities of America, who have not availed themselves, 
at one time or another, to the treat of listening to liis inimitable recitation of his 
])oems. His short vacation in the summer—“ his loafing days,” as he calls them— 
are spent with his relatives, and it is on these occasions that the genial poet is found 
at his best. 


A BOY’S MOTlIP^lt* 

FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.” 


mother she’s so good to me, 

I Ef I wuz good as I could he, 

[ I couldn’t be as good—no, sir !— 
Can’t an^ boy be good as her I 

She loves me when I’m glad er sad ; 
She loves me when I’m good er bad ; 
An’, what’s a funniest thing, she says 
She loves me when she punishes. 

I don’t like her to punish me.— 

That don't hurt,—but it hurts to see 


Her cryin’.—Nen I cry; an’ nen 
We both cry an’ be good again. 

She loves me when she cuts an’ sews 
My little cloak an’ Sund’y clothes; 
An’ when my Pa comes home to tea, 
She loves him most as much as me. 

She laughs an’ tells him all I said. 
An’ grabs me an’ pats my head ; 

An’ I hug her, an’ hug my Pa, 

An’ love him purt’-nigh much as Ma. 



THOUGHTS ON THE LATE WAR.* 


FROM “POEMS HERE AT HO.ME.” 



WAS for Union—you, ag’in’ it. 

’Pears like, to me, each side was winner. 
Lookin’ at now and all ’at’s in it. 

Le’ ’s go to dinner. 


The war, you know, ’s all done and ended. 

And ain’t changed no p’ints o’ the compass; 
Roth North and South the health’s jes’ splendid 
As ’fore the rumpus. 


Le’ ’s kind o’ jes’ set down together 
And do some pardnership forgittin’— 
Talk, say, for instance, ’bout the weather, 
Ur somepin’ fittin’. 


The old farms and the old plantations 
Still ockipies the’r old positions. 

Le’ ’s git back to old situations 

And old ambitions. 


* By Permission of the Century Co. 









352 


JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 


Le’ ’s let up on this blame’, infernal 
Tongue-lash in’ and lap-jacket vauntin’ 
And git back home to the eternal 

Ca’m we’re a-wantin’. 


Peace kind o’ sort o’ suits my diet— 
When women does my cookin’ for me, 
Ther’ was n’t overly much pie et 
Durin’ the army. 


OUR HIRED GIRL.* 

FROM “ POEMS HERE AT HOME.” 


LHl hired girl, she’s ’Lizabuth Ann ; 

An’ she can cook best things to eat! 
She ist puts dough in our pie-pan, 

An’ pours in somepin’ ’at’s good an’ 
sweet; 

An’ nen she salts it all on top 
With cinnamon ; an’ nen she ’ll stop 
An’ stoop an’ slide it, ist as slow, 

In th' old cook-stove, so’s’t wont slop 
An’ git all spilled ; nen bakes it, so 
It s custard-pie, first thing you know ! 

An’ nen she ’ll say, 

“ C'lear out o’ my way ! 

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play! 
Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run ! 

Er I cain’t git no cookin’ done !” 

"When our hired girl ’tends like she’s mad. 

An’ says folks got to walk the chalk 
When s/ie's around, er wisht they had ! 

I play out on our porch an’ talk 
To th’ Raggedy Man ’t mows our lawn ; 

An’ he says, “ Whe^c! ” an’ nen leans on 
His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes, 


An’ sniff's all ’round an’ says, “ I swawn I 
Ef my old nose don’t tell me lies. 

It ’pears like I smell custard-pies! ” 

An’ nen he 'll say, 

“ Clear out o’ my way ! 

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play! 
Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run! 

Er she cain’t git no cookin’ done ! ” 

Wunst our liired girl, when she 
Got the supper, an’ we all et. 

An’ it wuz night, an’ Ma an’ me 

An’ Pa went wher’ the “ Social ” met,— 
An’ nen when we come home, an’ see 
A light in the kitchen-door, an’ we 
Heerd a maccordeun. Pa says, “ Lan’- 
O’-Gracious ! who can her beau be’?” 

An’ I marched in, an’ ’Lizabuth Ann 
Wuz parchin’ corn fer the Raggedy Man ! 
Better say, 

“ Clear out o’ the way! 

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play ! 
Take the hint, an’ run, child, run ! 

Er we cain’t git no courtin’ done !” 



THE RAGGEDY MAN.* 


FROM “ POEMS 
THE Raggedy Man ! He works fer Pa; 
An’ he’s the goodest man ever you saw ! 
He comes to our house every day. 

An’ waters the horses, an’ feeds ’em hay; 
An’ he opens the shed—an’ we all ist laugh 
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf; 

An’ nen—ef our hired girl says he can— 

He milks the cow fer ’Lizabuth Ann,— 

Ain’t he a’ awful good Raggedy Man ’? 

Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! 

W'y, the Raggedy Man—he’s ist so good. 

He splits the kindlin’ an’ chops the wood ; 

An’ nen he spades in our garden, too. 

An’ does most things't hoj/s can’t do.— 

He dumbed clean up in our big tree 
An’ shooked a’ apple down fer me— 

An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer ’Lizabuth Ann— 

An’ ’nother ’n’, too, fer the Raggedy IMan.— 

Ain’t he a’ awful kind Raggedy Man ? 

Raggedy ! Raggedy ! Raggedy Man 1 

*By permission c 


ERE AT HOME.” 

An’ the Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes. 

An’ tells ’em, ef I be good, sometimes: 

Knows ’bout Giunts, an’ Grilfuns, an’ Elves, 

An’ the S(}uidg'-jum-Sr|uees ’at swallers therselves! 
An’, wite by the pump in our pasture-lot. 

He .showed me the hole ’at the Wunks is got, 

’At lives ’way deej) in the ground, an’ can 
Turn into me, er ’Lizabuth Ann ! 

Ain’t he a funny old Raggedy Man? 

Raggedy ! Raggedy ! Raggedy Man! 

The Raggedy Man—one time, when he 
Wuz makin’ a little bow’-n’-orry fer me. 

Says, “ When you ’re big like your Pa is, 

Air you go’ to keep a fine store like his— 

An’ be a rich merchunt—an’ wear fine clothes?— 
Er what air you go’ to be, goodness knows?” 

An’ nen he laughed at ’Lizabuth Ann, 

An’ 1 says, “’M go’ to be a Raggedy Man!— 

I’m ist go’ to be a nice Raggedy Man! ” 
Raggedy ! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! 

‘ The Century Co. 













FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 

THE POET OF THE MINING CAMP AND THE WESTERN MOUNTAINS. 

HE turbulent mining camps of California, with their vicious hangers- 
on, have been embalmed for future generations by the unerring 
genius of Bret Harte, who sought to i-eveal the remnants of honor 
in man, and loveliness in woman, des})ite the sins and vices of the 
mining towns of our Western frontier thirty or forty years ago. His 
writings have been regarded with disfavor by a religious class of 
readers because of the frequent occurrence of rough phrases and even profanity 
which he employs in his descriptions. It should be lemembered, however, that a 
faithful portrait of the conditions and people which he described could hardly have 
been presented in more polite language than that employed. 

Bret Harte was born in Albany, New York, in 1839. His father was a scholar 
of ripe culture, and a teacher in the Albany Female Seminary. He died poor when 
Bret was quite young, consequently the education of his son v/as confined to the 
common schools of the city. When only seventeen years of age, young Harte, 
with his widowed mother, emigrated to California. Arriving in San Francisco he 
walked to the mines of Sonora and there opened a school which he taught for a 
short time. Thus began his self-education in the mining life which furnished the 
material for his early literature. After leaving his school he became a miner, and 
at odd times learned to set type in the office of one of the frontier papers. He wrote 
sketches of the strange life around him, set them up in type himself, and offered the 
proofs to the editor, believing that in this shape they would be more certain of 
acceptance. His aptitude with his pen secured him a position on the paper, and in 
the absence of the editor he once controlled the journal and incurred popular wrath 
for censuring a little massacre of Indians by the leading citizens of the locality, 
which came near bringing a mob upon him. 

The young adventurer,—for he was little else at this time,—also served as mounted 
messenger of an express company and as express agent in several mountain towns, 
which gave him a full knowledge of the picturesque features of mining life. In 
1857 he returned to San Francisco and secured a position as compositor on a weekly 
literary journal. Here again he repeated his former trick of setting up and sub¬ 
mitting several spirited sketches of mining life in type. These were accej)ted and 
soon earned him an editorial position on the “Golden Era.” After this he made 
many contributions to the daily papers and his tales of Western life began to attract 
attention in the East. In 1858, he married, which put an end to his wanderings. 

23 . 353 






















354 


FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 


He attempted to publish a newspaper of his own, “ The Californian,” which was 
bright and worthy to live, but failed for want of proper business management. 

In 1864 Mr. Harte was appointed Secretary of the United States Branch Mint at 
San Francisco, and during his six years of service in this position found leisure to 
write some of his popular poems, such as “John Burns, of Gettysburg,” “ How Are 
You, Sanitary ? ” and others, which were generally printed in the daily newspapers. 
He also became editor of the “ Overland Monthly ” when it was founded in 1868, 
and soon made this magazine as great a favorite on the Atlantic as on the Pacific 
Coast, by his contribution to its columns of a series of sketches of California life 
which have won a j^ermanent place in literature. Among these sketches are “ The 
Luck of Boaring Camp,” telling how a baby came to rule the hearts of a rough, 
dissolute gang of miners. It is said that this masterpiece, however, narrowly 
escaped the waste-basket at the hands of the proofreader, a woman, who, without 
noticing its origin, regarded it as utter trash. “ The Outcast of Poker Flat,” 
“ Miggles,” “Tennessee’s Partner,” “An Idyl of Bed Gulch,” and many other 
stories which revealed the spark of humanity remaining in brutalized men and 
women, followed in rapid succession. 

Bret Harte was a man of the most humane nature, and sympathized deeply with 
the Indian and the Chinaman in the rough treatment they received at the hands of the 
early settlers, and his literature, no doubt, did much to soften and mollify the actions 
of those who read them—and it may be safely said that almost every one did, as he 
was about the only author at that time on the Pacific Slope and very popular. His 
poem, “The Heathen Chinee,” generally called “Plain Language from Truthful 
James,” was a masterly satire against the hue and cry that the Chinese were shiftless 
and weak-minded settlers. This poem apjDeared in 1870 and was wonderfully 
popular. 

In the spring of 1871 the professorship of recent literature in the University of 
California w^as offered to Mr. Harte, on his resignation of the editorship of the 
“ Overland Monthly,” but he declined the proffer to try his literary fortunes in the 
more cultured East. He endeavored to found a magazine in Chicago, but his efforts 
failed, and he went to Boston to accept a position on the “ Atlantic Monthly,” since 
which time his pen has been constantly employed by an increasing demand from 
various magazines and literary journals. Mr. Harte has issued many volumes of 
prose and poetry, and it is difficult to say in which field he has won greater distinc¬ 
tion. Both as a prose writer and as a poet he has treated similar subjects with equal 
facility. His reputation was made, and his claim to fame rests upon his intuitive 
insight into the heart of our common humanity. A number of his sketches have 
been translated into French and German, and of late years he has lived much 
abroad, where he is, if any difference, more lionized than he was in his native 
country. 

From 1878 to 1885 Mr. Harte was United States Consul successively to Crefield 
and Glasgow. Ferdinand Freiligraph, one of his German translators, and himself 
a poet, pays this tribute to his peculiar excellence: 

“ Nevertheless he remains what he is—the Californian and the gold-digger. But 
the gold for which he has dug, and which he found, is not the gold in the bed of 
rivers—not the gold in veins of mountains; it is the gold of love, of goodness, of 


FRANCIS BRET IIARTE. 


355 


fidelity, of humanity, which even in rude and wild hearts—even under the rubbish 
of vices and sins—remains forever uneradicated from the human heart. That he 
there searched for this gold, that he found it there and triumphantly exhibited it to 
the world—that is his greatness and his merit.” 

His works as published from 1867 to 1890 include “ Condensed Novels,” 
“Poems,” “The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches,” “East and West 
Poems,” “ Poetical Works,” “ Mrs. Skaggs’ Husbands,” “ Echoes of the Foothills,” 
“Tales of the Argonauts,” “Gabriel Conroy,” “Two Men of Sandy Bar,” “Thankful 
Blossom,” “Story of a Mine,” “Drift from Two Shores,” “The Twins of Table 
Mountain and Other Stories,” “In the Carquinez Woods,” “On the Frontier,” “By 
Shore and Ledge,” “Snowbound at Eagles,” “The Crusade of the Excelsior,” “A 
Phyllis of the Sierras.” One of Mr. Harte’s most popular late novels, entitled 
“Three Partners; or, The Big Strike on Heavy Tree Hill,” was published as a serial 
in 1897. Though written while the author was in Europe, the vividness of the 
description and the accurate delineations of the miner character are as strikingly 
real as if it had been produced by the author while residing in the mining country 
of his former Western home. 


SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. 



RESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name 
is Truthful James; 

I am not up to small deceit or any sinful 
games; 

And I’ll tell in simple language what I 
know about the row 

That broke up our Society upon the Stan- 
islow. 


But first, I would remark, that it is not a proper plan 

For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man. 

And, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim. 

To lay for that same member for to “ put a head ” on 
him. 

Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see 

Than the first six months’ proceedings of that same 
Society, 

Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones 

That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of 
Jones. 

Then Brown, he read a paper, and he reconstructed 
there. 

From those same bones, an animal that was extremely 
rare; 

And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspen.sion of 
the rules. 

Till he could prove that those same bones was one of 
his lost mules. 

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, an’ said he was 
at fault, 

It-seems he had been tre.spassing on Jones’s family 
vault; 


He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, 
And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town. 


Now, I hold it is not decent for a .scientific gent 
To say another is an ass,—at least, to all intent; 

Nor should the individual who happens to be meant 
Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent. 


Then Abner Dean, of Angel’s, raised a point of order, 
when 

A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the 
abdomen ; 

And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up 
on the floor. 

And the subsequent proceedings interested him no 
more; 


For, in less time than I write it, every member did 
engage 

In a warfare with the remnants of the palaeozoic age; 

And the way they heaved those fossils, in their anger, 
was a sin, 

’Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head 
of Thompson in. 


And this is all I have to say of these improper games, 
For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truth¬ 
ful James; 

And I’ve told in simple language what I knew about 
the row 

That broke up our society upon the Stanlslow. 





35^ 


FRANCIS BRET IIARTE. 


DK’KENS IN CAMP. 


HOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 
The river sang below ; 

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 
Their minarets of snow. 

d'he roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted 
The ruddy tints of health 

On haggard face and form, that drooped and fainted 
In the fierce race for wealth 

’Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure 
A hoarded volume drew. 

And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure 
To hear the tale anew. 



The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows. 

Listened in every spray. 

While the whole camp with Nell ” on English 
meadows 

Wandered and lost their way. 

And so, in mountain solitudes, o’ertaken 
As by some spell divine, 

'fheir cares drop from them like the needles shaken 
From out the gusty pine. 

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire, 

And he who wrought that spell; 

Ah ! towering pine and stately Kentish spire, 

Ye have one tale to tell ! 


And then, while shadows ’round them gathered faster. 
And as the firelight fell, 

He read aloud the book wherein the Master 
Had writ of “ Little Nell.” 


Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant story 
Blend with the breath that thrills 
With hop-vines’ incense, all the pensive glory 
That thrills the Kentish hills; 


Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,—for the reader 
Was the youngest of them all,— 

Hut, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 
.\ silence seemed to fall. 


And on that grave, where English oak and holly, 
And laurel-wreaths entwine, 

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly. 

This spray of Western pine ! 












EUGENE FIELD. 

THE children’s FRIEND AND POET. 

IN the fourth day of November, 1895, there was many a sad home in 
I the city of Chicago and throughout America. It was on that day 
that Eugene Fiekl, the most congenial friend young children ever 
had among the literary men of America, died at the early age of 
forty-live. The expressions of regard and regret called out on all 
sides by this untimely death, made it clear tliat the character in 
wliich the public at large knew and loved Mr. Field best was that of the “ Poet of 
Child Life.” What gives his poems their unequaled lipid on the po^mlar heart is 
their simplicity, warmth and genuineness. This quality they owe to the fact that 
Mr. Field almost lived in the closest and fondest intimacy with children. He had 
troops of them for his friends and it is said he wrote his child-poems directly under 
their suggestions and inspiration. 

We niiglit fill far more space than is at our command in this volume relating 
incidents which go to show his fondness for little ones. It is said that on the day 
of his marriage, he delayed the ceremony to settle a quarrel between some urchins 
who were playing marbles in the street. So long did he remain to argue the ques¬ 
tion with them that all might be satisfied, the time for tlie wedding actually passed 
and when sent for, he was found squatted down among them acting as peace-maker. 
It is also said that on one occasion he was invited by the noted divine, Dr. Gun- 
saulus, to visit his home. The children of the family had been reading Field’s 
poems and looked forward with eagerness to his coming. When he arrived, the 
first question he asked the children, after being introduced to them, was, “Where is 
the kitchen?” and expressed his desire to see it. Child-like, and to the embarrass¬ 
ment of the mother, they led him straight to the cookery where he .seized upon the 
remains of a turkey which had been left from the meal, carried it into the dining¬ 
room, seated himseif and made a feast with his little friends, telling them quaint 
stories all the while. After this impromptu sup])er, he spent the remainder of the 
evening singing them lullabies and reciting his verses. Naturally before he went 
away, the children had given him their whole hearts and this was the way with all 
children with whom he came into contact. 

The devotion so unfailing in his relation to children would naturally show itself 
in other relations. His devotion to his wife was most pronounced. In all the world 
she was the only woman he loved and he never wished to be away from her. Often 

357 

























358 


EUGENE FIELD. 


she accompanied him on his reading tours, the last journey they made together 
being in the summer of ’95 to the home of Mrs. Field’s girlhood. While his wife 
was in the company of her old associates, instead of joining them as they expected, 
he took advantage of her temporary absence, hired a carriage and visited all of the 
old scenes of their early associations during the happy time of their love-making. 

His association with his fellow-workers was equally congenial. No man who had 
ever known him felt the slightest hesitancy in approaching him. He had the happy 
faculty of making them always feel welcome. It was a common happening in 
the Chicago newspaper office for some tramp of a fellow, who had known him in 
the days gone by, to walk boldly in and blurt out, as if confident in the power 
of the name bespoke—“Is ’Gene Field here? I knew ’Gene Field in Denver, 
or I worked with ’Gene Field on the ‘ Kansas City Times.’ ” These were suffi¬ 
cient passwords and never failed to call forth the cheery voice from Field’s room— 
“ That’s all right, show him in here, he’s a friend of mine.” 

One of Field’s peculiarities with his own children was to nickname them. 
When his first daughter was born he called her “ Trotty,” and, although she is a 
grown-up woman now, her friends still call her “ Trotty.” The second daughter is 
called “ Pinny ” after the child opera “ Pinafore,” which was in vogue at the time 
she was born. Another, a son, came into the world when everybody was singing 
“Oh My! Ain’t She a Daisy.” Naturally this fellow still goes by the name of 
“ Daisy.” Two other of Mr. Field’s children are known as “ Googhy ” and 
“ Posy.” 

Eugene Field was born in St. Louis, Missouri, September 2, 1850. Part of his 
early life was passed in Vermont and Massachusetts. He was educated in a univer¬ 
sity in Missouri. From 1873 to 1883 he was connected with various newspapers 
in Missouri and Colorado. He joined the staff of the Chicago “ Daily News ” in 
1883 and removed to Chicago, where he continued to reside until his death, twelve 
years later. Of Mr. Field’s books, “ The Denver Tribune Primer ” was issued in 
*1882 ; “ Culture Garden ” (1887); “ Little Book of Western Friends ” (1889); and 
“Little Book of Profitable Tales” (1889). 

Mr. Field was not only a writer of child verses, but wrote some first-class 
Western dialectic verse, did some translating, was an excellent newspaper correspon¬ 
dent, and a critic of no mean ability ; but he was too kind-hearted and liberal to 
chastise a brother severely who did not come up to the highest literary standard. 
He was a hard worker, contributing daily, during his later years, from one to three 
columns to the “ Chicago News,” besides writing more or less for the “ Syndicate 
Press ” and various periodicals. In addition to this, he was frequently traveling, 
and lectured or read from his own writings. Since his death, his oldest daughter. 
Miss Mary French Field (“Trotty”), has visited the leading cities throughout the 
country, delivering readings from her father’s works. The announcement of her 
ajipearance to read selections from the writings of her genial father is always 
liberally responded to by an ajipreciative public. 


EUGEXE FIELD. 


359 


OUR TWO OPLMONS * 



S two wuz boys when we fell out— 

Nigh to the age uv my youngest now; 
Don’t rec’lect what ’twuz about, 

Some small ditf’rence, I’ll allow, 

Lived next neighbors twenty years, 

A-hatin’ each other, me ’nd Jim— 

He havin’ his opinyin uv me 

’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him ! 


Grew up together, ’nd wouldn’t speak. 
Courted sisters, and marr’d ’em, too 
’Tended same meetin’ house oncet a week, 
A-hatin’ each other, through ’nd through. 
But when Abe Linkern asked the West 
F’r soldiers, we answered—me ‘nd Jim— 
He havin’ his opinyin uv me 

’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him! 


Down in Tennessee one night, 

Ther was sound uv firin’ fur away, 

’Nd the sergeant allowed ther’d be a fight 
With the Johnnie Rebs some time next day; 


’Nd as I was thinkin’ of Lizzie ’nd home, 
Jim stood afore me, long ’nd slim— 

He havin’ his opinyin uv me 

’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him! 

Seemed like we knew there wuz goin’ to be 
Serious trouble f r me ’nd him— 

LTs two shuck hands, did Jim ’nd me, 

But never a word from me or Jim ! 

He went his way, and I went mine, 

’Nd into the battle’s roar went we— 

I havin’ my opinyin uv Jim 

’Nd he havin’ his opinyin uv me! 

Jim never come back from the war again. 
But I haint forgot that last, last night 
When waitin’ f’r orders, us two men 

Made up and shuck hands, afore the fight; 
’Nd, after it all, it’s soothin’ to know 
That here I be, ’nd yonder’s Jim— 

He havin’ his opinyin uv me 

’Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him 1 


LULLABY.* 


AIR is the castle up on the hill— 
Hushaby, sweet my own ! 

_ The night is fair and the waves are still, 

And the wind is singing to you and me 
In this lowly home beside the sea— 
Hushaby, sweet my own ! 

On yonder hill is store of wealth— 

Hushaby, sweet my own ! 

And revellers drink to a little one’s health; 
But you and I bide night and day 
For the other love that has sailed away— 
Hushaby, sweet my own ! 

See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep 
Ghostlike, 0 my own ! 

Out of the mists of the murmuring deep ; 


Oh, see them not and make no cry, 

’Till the angels of death have passed us by— 
Hushaby, sweet my own I 

Ah, little they reck of you and me— 
Hushaby, sweet my own ! 

In our lonely home beside the sea; 

They seek the castle up on the hill, 

And there they will do their ghostly will— 
Hushaby, 0 my own ! 

Here by the sea, a mother croons 
“ Hushaby, sweet my own ; ” 

In yonder castle a mother swoons 

While the angels go down to the misty deep, 

Bearing a little one fast asleep— 

Hushaby, sweet my own ! 



A DUTCH LULLABY.* 



■•^'YNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one night 
Sailed off in a wooden shoe— 
Sailed on a river of misty light 
Into a sea of dew. 


“ Where are you going, and what do you wish?” 

The old moon asked the three. 

“ AYe have to come to fish for the herring-fish 
That live in this beautiful sea: 


* From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). Copyrighted by Eugene Field, and published by Charles Scribner’s Sons. 



























56 o 


EUGENE FIELD. 


Nete of silver and gold have we, 

Said Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

The old moon laughed and sung a song, 

And they rocked in the wooden shoe, 

And the wind that sped them all night long 
Buffled the waves of dew; 

The little stars were the herring-tish 
That lived in the beautiful sea; 

“Now cast your nets wherever you wish, 

But never afeared are we ”— 

So cried the stars to the fishermen three, 
Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

All night long their nets they threw 
For the fish in the twinkling foam. 

Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe. 
Bringing the fishermen home. 


j 'Twas all so pretty a sad, it seemed 
As if it could not be ; 

And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed 
j Of sailing that beautiful sea. 

But I shall name you the fishermen three: 
Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes. 

And Nod is a little head. 

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 
Is a wee one’s trundle-bed ; 

8 o shut your eyes while mother sings 
Of wonderful sights that be. 

And you shall see the beautiful things 
As you rock in the misty sea. 

Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three— 
Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 


THE NOBSE LULLABY.* 


From “A Little Book of Western Verse” (1889). 


HE sky is dark and the hills are white 
As the storm-king speeds from the north 
to-night, 

And this is the song the storm-king sings, 
As over the world his cloak he flings: 

“ Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep ! ” 

He rustles his wings and gruffly sings; 

“ Sleep, little one, sleep ! ” 

On yonder mountain-side a vine 
(''lings at the foot of a mother pine; 

The tree bends over the trembling thing 


And only the vine can hear her sing; 

“ Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep— 
What shall you fear when I am here ? 
Sleep, little one, sleep.” 

The king may sing in his bitter flight, 
The tree may croon to the vine to-night, 
But the little snowflake at my breast 
Liketh the song I sing the best : 

“ Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep ; 
Weary thou art, anext my heart, 

Sleep, little one, .sleep.” 



* 


j 


Coj)yriglit, diaries Scribner’s Sous. 









V x'^//s.<^/0^^. aT'-- T^ ^ ■ v^ 

^.>f« 4 m >i< 4< 4 4< 4 s 4 f< 4 4 4 4 -4 4 4’ 


WILL CAELETON. 



AUTHOR OF “BETSY AXD I ARE OUT. 

E\V writers of homely verse have been more esteemed than Will 
Carleton. His poems are to be found in almost every book of selec¬ 
tions for popular reading. They are well adapted to recitation and 
are favorites with general audiences. With few exceptions they 
are j^ortraitures of the humorous side of rural life and frontier 
scenes; but they are executed with a vividness and truth to nature 
that does credit to the author and insures their preservation as faithful portraits of 
social conditions and frontier scenes and provincialisms which the advance of educa¬ 
tion is fast relegating to the past. 

Will Carleton was born in Hudson, Michigan, October 21, 1845. His father 
was a pioneer settler who came from New Hampshire. Young Carleton remained 
at home on the farm until he was sixteen years of age, attending the district school 
in the winters and working on the farm during the summers. At the age of six¬ 
teen he became a teacher in a country school and for the next four years divided his 
time between teaching, attending school and working as a farm-hand, during which 
time he also contributed articles in both prose and verse to local papers. In 1865 
he entered Hillsdale College, Michigan, from which he graduated in 1869. Since 
1870 he has been engaged in journalistic and literary work and has also lectured 
frequently in the West. It was during his early experiences as a teacher in “board¬ 
ing round” that he doubtless gathered the incidents which are so graphically 
detailed in his poems. 

There is a homely pathos seldom equalled in the two selections “Betsy and I Are 
Out” and “How Betsy and I Made Up” that have gained for them a permanent 
place in the affections of the reading public. In other of his poems, like “Makin’ 
an Editor Outen Him,” “A Lightning Rod Dispenser,” “The Christmas Baby,” 
etc., there is a rich vein of humor that has given them an enduring popularity. 
“The First Settler’s Story ” is a most graphic picture of pioneer life, portraying the 
hardships which early settlers frequently endured and in which the depressing 
homesickness often felt for the scenes of their childhood and the far-away East is 
pathetically told. 

Mr. Carleton’s first volume of poems appeared in 1871, and was printed for 
private distribution. “Betsy and I Are Out” appeared in 1872 in the “Toledo 
Blade.” It was copied in “Harper’s Weekly,” and illustrated. This was really the 
author’s first recognition in literary circles. In 1873 appeared a collection of his 

361 












362 


WILL CARLETON. 


poems entitled “Farm Ballads,” including the now famous selections, “Out of the 
Old House, Nancy,” “Over the Hills to the Poorhouse,” “Gone With a Handsomer 
Man,” and “How Betsy and I Made Up.” Other well-known volumes by the same 
author are entitled “Farm Legends,” “Young Folk’s Centennial Khymes,” “Farm 
Festivals,” and “City Ballads.” 

In his preface to the first volume of his poems Mr. Carleton modestly apologizes 
for whatever imperfections they may possess in a manner which gives us some 
insight into his literary methods. “These poems,” he writes, “have been written 
under various, and in some cases difficult, conditions: in the open air, with team 
afield; in the student’s den, with ghosts of unfinished lessons hovering gloomily 
about; amid the rush and roar of railroad travel, which trains of thought are not 
prone to follow; and in the editor’s sanctum, where the dainty feet of the muses do 
not often deign to tread.” 

But Mr. Carleton does not need to apologize. He has the true poetic instinct. 
His descriptions are vivid, and as a narrative versifier he has been excelled by few, 
if indeed any depicter of Western farm life. 

Will Carleton has also written considerable prose, which has been collected and 
published in book form, but it is his poetical works which have entitled him to 
j)ublic esteem, and it is for these that he will be longest remembered in literature. 


BETSY AXD 


RAW up the papers, lawyer, and make ’em 
good and stout, 

For things at home are cross-ways, and 
Betsy and I are out,— 

We who have worked together so long as 
man and wife 

Must pull in single harness the rest of our 
nat’ral life. 

“ What is the matter,” says you ? I swan it’s hard to 
tell! 

IVIost of the years behind us we’ve passed by very 
well; 

T have no other woman—she has no other man; 

(July we’ve lived together as long as ever we can. 

So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked 
with me; 

And we’ve agreed together that we can never agree ; 

Not that we’ve catched each other in any terrible 
crime; 

We’ve been a gatherin’ this for years, a little at a 
time. 

There was a stock of temper we both had for a start; 

Although we ne’er suspected ’twould take us two 
apart; 


I ARE OUT.* 

I had my various hiilings, bred in the flesh and bone, 

And Betsy, hke all good women, had a temper of 
her own. 

The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed, 

Was somethin’ concerning heaven—a difference in our 
creed; 

We arg’ed the thing at breakfast—we arg’ed the 
thing at tea— 

And the more we arg'ed the question, the more we 
couldn’t agree. 

And the next that I remember was when we lost a 
cow; 

She had kicked the bucket, for certain—the question 
was only—How ? 

I held my opinion, and Betsy another had •, 

And when we were done a talkin’, we both of us 
was mad. 

And the next that I remember, it started in a joke; 

But for full a week it la.sted and neither of us spoke. 

And the next was when I fretted because she broke 
a bowl; 

And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn’t any 
soul. 



From “ Farm Ballads.” Copyright 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. 







WILL CARLETON. 


And so the thing kept workin’, and all the self-same 
way; ^ 

Always somethin’ to ar’ge and something sharp to 

say — 

And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o' 
dozen strong, 

And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along. 

And there have been days together—and many a 
weary week— 

When both of us were cross and spunky, and both 
too proud to speak ; 

And I have been thinkin’ and thinkin’, the whole of 
the summer and fall. 

If I can’t live kind with a woman, why, then I won’t 
at all. 

And so I’ve talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked 
with me; 

And we have agreed together that we can never agree ; 

And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall 
be mine; 

And I’ll put it in the agreement, and take it to her 
to sign. 

Write on the paper, lawyer—the very first para¬ 
graph— 

Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half; 

For she has helped to earn it through many a weary 

day, 

And it’s nothin’ more than justice that Betsy has her 

pay. 

Give her the house and homestead ; a man can thrive 
and roam. 

But women are wretched critters, unless they have a 
home. 

And I have always determined, and never failed to 
say, 

That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken 
away. 

There’s a little hard money besides, that’s drawin’ 
toPrable pay, 

A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day,— 

Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at; 

Put in another clause there, and give her all of that. 


I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin’ her so 
much ; 

Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such ; 
True and fair I married her, when she was blythe 
and young. 

And Betsy was always good to me exceptin’ with her 
tongue. 

When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, 
perhaps, 

For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps; 
And all of ’em was flustered, and fairly taken down. 
And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town. 

Once when I had a fever—I won’t forget it soon— 

I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon— 
Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight; 
She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day 
and night. 

And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean. 
Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen. 
And I don’t complain of Betsy or any of her acts. 
Exceptin’ when we’ve quarreled, and told each other 
facts. 

So draw up the paper, lawyer; and I’ll go home to¬ 
night, 

And read the agreement to her, and see if it’s all right; 
And then in the morning I’ll sell to a tradin’ man I 
know— 

And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the 
world I’ll go. 

And one thing put in the paper, that first to me 
didn’t occur; 

That when I am dead at last she will bring me back 
to her, 

And lay me under the maple we planted years ago. 
When she and I was happy, before we quarreled so. 

And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me; 
And lyin’ together in silence, perhaps we’ll then agree; 
And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn’t think it 
queer 

If we loved each other the better because we’ve 
quarreled here. 


GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN.* 


(from “ FARM BALLADS.”) 



John. 

’YE worked in the field all day, a plowin 
the “ stony streak ; ” 

I’ve scolded my team till I’m hoarse; 

I’ve tramped till my legs are weak; 


I’ve choked a dozen swears, (so’s not to tell Jane 
fibs,) 

When the plow-pint struck a stone, and the handles 
punched my ribs. 


* Copyright, 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers. 






WILL CAKLETON. 


364 

I ve put my team in the barn, and rubbed their 
sweaty coats; 

I’ve fed ’em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats; 

And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin’ 
feel, 

And Jane won’t say to-night that I don’t make out a 
meal. 

Well said ! the door is locked ! out here she's left the 
key, 

Under the step, in a place known only to her and me ; 

I wonder who’s dyin’ or dead, that she's hustled otf 
pell-mell; 

But here on the table’s a note, and probably this will 
tell. 

Good God ! my wife is gone ! my wife is gone astray ! 

The letter it says, “ Good-bye, for I’m a going away ; 

I’ve lived with you six months, John, and so far I've 
been true; 

But I’m going away to-day with a handsomer man 
than you.” 

A han'somer man than me! Why, that ain’t much 
to say; 

There’s han’somer men than me go past here every 
day. 

There’s han’somer men than me—I ain’t of the 
han’some kind; 

But a loven'er man than I was, I guess she'll never 
find. 

Curse her! curse her! I say. and give my curses wings! 

May the words of love I’ve spoken be changed to 
scorpion stings! 

Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my 
heart of doubt. 

And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart's 
blood out! 

Curse her! curse her! say I, she'll some time rue 
this day; 

She'll some time learn that hate is a game that two 
can play; 

And long before .she dies she'll grieve she ever was 
born, 

And I'll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down 
to scorn. 

As sure as the world goes on, there'll come a time 
when she 

Will read the devilish heart of that han’somer man 
than me; 

And there’ll be a time when he will find, as others do. 

That she who is false to one, can be the same with 
two. 

And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes 
grow dim. 


And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him, 

She’ll do what she ought to have done, and coolly 
count the cost; 

And then she'll see things clear, and know what she 
has lost. 

And thoughts that are now aslee]) will wake up in 
her mind. 

And .she will mourn and cry for what she has left 
behind; 

And maybe she'll sometimes long for me—for me— 
but no! 

I’ve blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have 
it so. 

And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin’ or 
other she had 

That fastened a man to her, and wasn’t entirely bad; 

And she loved me a little, 1 think, although it didn’t 
last; 

But I mustn’t think of these things—I’ve buried ’em 
in the past. 

I'll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter 
worse; 

She’ll have trouble enough ; she shall not have my 
curse; 

But I’ll live a life so S(juare —and I well know that I 
can,— 

That she always will sorry be that she went with that 
han’.somer man. 

Ah, here is her kitchen dress ! it makes my poor eyes 
blur; 

It seems when I look at that, as if ’twas holdin’ her. 

And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her 
week-day hat. 

And yonder’s her weddin’ gown ; I wonder .she didn’t 
take that. 

Twas only this mornin’ .she came and called me her 
‘‘ dearest dear,” 

And said I was makin’ for her a regular paradise 
here; 

O God ! if you want a man to sense the jtains of hell, 

Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a 
spell! 

Good-bye! I wish that death had severed us two 
apart. 

You’ve lost a worshiper here, you’ve crushed a lovin’ 
heart. 

111 worship no woman again ; but I guess I'll learn 
to pray. 

And kneel as you u.sed to kneel, before you run away. 

And if I thought I could bring my words on Heaven 
to bear, 







WILL CARLETON. 


And if I thought I had some little influence there, 

I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so. 

As happy and gay as I was a half-hour ago. 

Jane (entering'). 

Why, John, what a litter here! you’ve thrown things 
all around ! 

Come, what’s the matter now ? and what have you 
lost or found ? 

And here’s my father here, a waiting for supper, too; 

I’ve been a riding with him—he’s that “ handsomer 
man than you.” 

Ila ! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on. 

And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old 
John. 

Why, John, you look so strange! come, what has 
crossed your track ? 


365 

I was only a joking, you know; I’m willing to take 
it back. 

John (aside). 

Well, now, if this ain't a joke, with rather a bitter 
cream ! 

It seems as if I’d woke from a mighty ticklish dream; 

And I think she “smells a rat,” for she smiles at me 
so queer, 

I hope she don’t; good gracious I I hope that they 
didn’t hear! 

’Twas one of her practical drives—she thought I’d 
understand! 

But I’ll never break sod again till I get the lay of the 
land. 

But one thing’s settled with me—to appreciate heaven 
well, 

’Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of 
hell. 





JOAQUIN MILLER. 


‘‘the poet of the sierkas.” 

N the year 1851, a farmer moved from the Wahash district in Indiana 
to the wilder regions of Oregon. In his family was a rude, untaught 
boy of ten or t\velve years, bearing the unusual name of Cincin- 
na'tus Heine Miller. This boy worked with his father on the farm 
until he was about fifteen years of age, when he abandoned the 
family log-cabin in the Willamette Valley of his Oregon home to 
try this fortune as a gold miner. 

A more daring attempt was seldom if ever undertaken by a fifteen year old 
youth. It was during the most desperate period of Western history, just after the 
report of the discovery of gohl had caused the greatest rush to the Pacific slope. 
A miscellaneous and turbulent population swarmed over tbe country; and, “armed 
to the teeth” prospected upon streams and mountains. The lawless, reckless life 
of these gold-hunters—millionaires to-day and beggars to-morrow—deeming it a 
virtue rather than a crime to have taken life in a brawl—was, at once, novel, 
picturesque and dramatic.—Such conditions furnished great possibilities for a poet 
or novelist.—It was an era as rejdete with a reality of thrilling excitement as 
that furnished by the history and mythology of ancient Greece to the earlier 
Greeks poets. 

It was into this whirljiool that the young, untaught—but observant and daring- 
farmer lad threw himself, and when its whirl was not giddy aiul fast enough for 
him, or palled upon his more exacting ta.ste for excitement and daring adventure, 
he left it after a few months, and sought deeper and more desperate wilds. With 
Walker he became a filibuster and went into Nicaragua,—He became in turn an 
astrologer, a Spanish vaquero, and, joining the wild Indians, was made a Sachem. 

For five years he followed these adventurous wanderings; then as suddenly as 
he had entered the life he deserted it, and, in 1860 the prodigal returned home to 
his father’s cabin in Oregon. In his right arm he carried a bullet, in his right 
thigh another, and on many parts of his body were the scars left by Indian ar¬ 
rows. Shortly after returning home he begun the study of law and was admitted 
to practice Avithin a feAV months in Lane County, Oregon; but the gold fever or 
spirit of adventure took possession of him again and in 18G1 Ave find him in the 
gold mines of Idaho; but the yelloAv metal did not come into his “Pan” sufficiently 
fast and he gave it up to become an express messenger in the mining district. A 
fcAv months later he Avas back in Oregon Avhere he started a Democratic Newspaper 
































JOAQUIN MILLER. 



367 

at Eugene City which he ran long enough to get acquainted with a poetical contri¬ 
butor, Miss Minnie Myrtle, whom he married in 1862—in his usual short-order way 
of doing things—after an acquaintance of three days. Where “Joaquin” Miller— 
for he was now called “Joaquin” after a Spanish brigand whom he had defended— 
got his education is a mystery; but through the years of wandering, even in boy¬ 
hood, he was a rhymester and his verses now began to come fast in the columns of 
his paper. 

In 1862, after his marriage he resumed the practice of law, and, in 1866, at the 
age of twenty-five, was elected Judge of Grant County. This position he held for 


JOAQUIN miller’s STUDY, OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA. 

four years during which time he wrote much poetry. One day with his usual 
“ suddenness ” he abandoned his wife and his country and sailed for London to seek 
a publisher. At first he was unsuccessful, and had to print a small volume privately. 
This introduced him to the friendship of English writers and his “ Songs of the 
Sierras ” was issued in 1871. Naturally these poems were faulty in style and called 
forth strong adverse criticism; but the tales they told were glowing and passionate, 
and the wild and adventurous life they described was a new revelation in the world 
of sono-, and, verily, whatever the austere critic said, “ The common people heard him 
gladly^” and his .success became certain. Thus encouraged Miller returned to Cali¬ 
fornia, visited the tropics and collected material for another work which he published 




368 


JOAQUIN MILLER. 


in London in 1873 entitled “Sunland Songs.” Succeeding, the “Songs of the 
Desert” appeared in 1875; “Songs of Italy” 1878; Songs of the Mexican Seas 
1887. Later he has published “ With Walker in Nicaragua ” and lie is also author 
of a play called “The Danites,” and of several prose works relating to life in the 
West among which are “ The Danites in the Sierras,” “ Shadows of Shasta ” and 
‘ 40, or “ The Gold-seekers of the Sierras.” 

The chief excellencies of Miller’s works are his gorgeous pictures of the gigantic 
scenery of the Western mountains. In this sense he is a true poet. As compared 
with Bret Harte, while Miller has the finer poetic perception of the two, he does not 
possess the dramatic power nor the literary skill of Harte; nor does he seem to 
recognize the native generosity and noble qualities which lie hidden beneath the 
vicious lives of outlaws, as the latter i-eveals it in his writings. After all the ques¬ 
tion arises which is the nearer the truth ? Harte is about the same age as Miller, 
lived among the camps at about the same time, but he was not, to use a rough ex¬ 
pression, “ one of the gang,” was not so pronouncedly “ on the inside ” as was his 
brother poet. He never dug in the mines, he was not a filibuster, nor an Indian 
Sachem. All these and more Miller was, and perhaps he is nearer the plumb line 
of truth in his delineations after all. 

Mr. Miller’s home is on the bluffs overlooking the San Francisco Bay in sight of 
the Golden Gate. He devotes himself to literature, his old mother and his friends. 


THOUGHTS OF MY WESTP:RN HOME. 

WRITTEN IN ATHENS. 


TERRAS, and eternal tents 

Of snow that flashed o’er battlements 
Of mountains ! My land of the sun, 
Am I not true ? have I not done 
All things for thine, for thee alone, 

0 sun-land, sea-land, thou mine own? 

From other loves and other lands, 

As true, perhaps, as strong of hands. 

Have I not turned to thee and thine, 

0 sun-land of the palm and pine. 

And sung thy scenes, surpas,sing skies. 

Till Europe lifted up her face 
And marveled at thy matchless grace, 


With eager and inquiring eyes ? 

Be my reward some little place 
To pitch my tent, some tree and vine 
Where I may sit above the sea. 

And drink the .sun as drinking wine, 
And dream, or sing some songs of thee ; 
Or days to climb to Shasta’s dome 
Again, and be with gods at home, 

Salute my mountains—clouded Hood, 
Saint Helen’s in its sea of wood— 
Where sweeps the Oregon, and where 
White storms are in the feathered fir. 



MOUNT SHASTA. 


0 lord all Godland! lift the brow 
Familiar to the noon,—to top 
The universal world,—to prop 
The hollow heavens up,—to vow 
Stern constancy with stars,—to keep 
fltemal ward while cons sleep ; 

To tower calmly up and touch 
God’s purple garment—hems that sweep 
The cold blue north ! Oh, this were much ! 


Where storm-born shadows hide and hunt 
T knew thee in my glorious youth, 

I loved thy vast face, white as truth, 

T stood where thunderbolts were wont 
To smite thy Titan-fa.shioned front. 

And heard rent mountains rock and roll. 

I saw thy lightning’s gleaming rod 
Reach forth and write on heaven’s scroll 
The awful autograph of God ! 











JOAQUIN MILLER. 


369 


KIT CARSON’S RIDE. 



UN ? Now you bet you ; I rather guess so. 
But he’s blind as a badger. Whoa, l^ache, 
boy, whoa. 

No, you wouldn’t think so to look at his 
eyes. 

But he is badger blind, and it happened this wise ;— 

We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels. 

Old Revels and T, and my stolen brown bride. 

“ Forty full miles if a foot to ride, 

Forty full miles if a foot and the devils 
Of red Camanches are hot on the track 
When once they strike it. Let the sun go down 
Soon, very soon,” muttered bearded old Revels 
As he peered at the sun, lying low on his back. 
Holding fast to his lasso ; then he jerked at his steed. 
And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around, 
And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the 
ground,— 

Then again to his feet and to me, to my bride, 

While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud. 
His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud. 

And hi^ voice loud and shrill, as if blown from a 
reed,— 

“ Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed. 

And speed, if ever for life you would speed ; 

And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride, 
For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire. 

And feet of wild horses, hard flying before 
I hear like a sea breaking hard on the shore ; 

While the buffalo come like the surge of the .sea. 
Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three 
As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire.” 

We drew in the la.ssos, seized .saddle and rein. 

Threw them on, sinched them on, .sinched them over 
again. 

And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheer, 
Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold. 
Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with gold. 
And gold-mounted Colts, true companions for years. 
Cast the red silk serapes to the wind in a breath 
And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the 
horse. 

Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall. 

Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low call 
Of love-note or courage, but on o’er the plain 
So .steady and still, leaning low to the mane, 

With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein. 
Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray nose and 
nose. 

Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviced wind 
blows. 

Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer, 
24 


There was work to be done, there was death in the air, 
And the chance was as one to a thousand for all. 

Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustang 
Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the hollow 
earth rang 

And the foam from the flank and the croup and the 
neck 

Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck. 
Twenty miles ! thirty miles—a dim distant speck— 
Then a long reaching line and the Brazos in sight. 
And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight. 

I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right. 

But Revels was gone ; 1 glanced by my shoulder 
And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head drooping 
Hard on his breast, and his naked breast stooping 
Low down to the mane as so swifter and bolder 
Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. 

To right and to left the black buffalo came, 

In miles and in millions, rolling on in despair. 

With their beards to the dust and black tails in the 


As a terrible surf on a red sea of flame 
Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching 
higher. 

And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull. 

The monarch of millions, with shagg}' mane full 
Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire 
Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud 
And unearthly and up through its lowering cloud 
Game the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire. 
While his keen crooked horns through the storm of 
his mane 

liike black lances lifted and lifted again ; 

And I looked but this once, for the fire licked 
through. 

And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two. 

I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and shoulder 
Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs; 

And up through the black blowing veil of her hair 
Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes 
With a longing and love, yet look of despair. 

And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her, 
And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. 

Her .sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell 
To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck’s swell 
Did sub.side and recede, and the nerves fell as dead. 
Then she saw that my own steed still lorded his 
head 

With a look of delight, for this Pache, you see. 

Was her father’s and once at the South Santafee 
Had won a whole herd, sweeping everything down 
In a race where the world came to run for the crown ; 
And so when I won the true heart of my bride,— 









370 


JOAQUIN 

My neighbor’s and deadliest enemy’s child, 

And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe,— 
She brought me this steed to the border the night 
She met Kevels and me in her perilous flight, 

From the lodge of the chief to the north Brazos 
side; 

And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled. 

As if jesting, that 1, and I only, should ride 
The fleet-footed Pache, so if kin should pursue 
I should surely escape without other ado 
Than to ride, without blood, to the north Brazos side. 
And await her,—and wait till the next hollow moon 
Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon 
And swift she would join me, and all would be well 
Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell 
From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire. 
The last that I saw was a look of delight 
That I should escape,—a love,—a desire,— 

Yet never a word, not a look of appeal,— 

Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay 
heel 

One instant for her in my terrible flight. 

Then the rushing of fire rose around me and under. 
And the howling of beast like the sound of thunder,— 
Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over. 
As the passionate flame reached around them and 
wove her 

Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died,— 


MILLER. 

Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan, 

As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone. 

And into the Brazos I rode all alone— 

All alone, save only a horse long-limbed. 

And blind and bare and burnt to the skin. 

Then just as the terrible sea came in 
And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide. 

Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream 
brimmed 

In eddies, we struck on the opposite side. 

“Sell Pache—blind Pache? Now, mister! look 
here I 

You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheer 
Many days, many days, on this rugged frontier,” 

For the ways they were rough and Comanches were 
near; 

“ But you’d better pack up, sir! That tent is too 
small 

For us two after this! Has an old mountaineer, 

Do you book-men believe, get no tum-tum at all ? 

Sell Pache ! You buy him ! a bag full of gold ! 

You show him ! Tell of him the tale I have told! 
Why he bore me through fire, and is blind and is 
old! 

. . . Now pack up your papers, and’get up 

and spin 

To them cities you tell of. . . . Blast you and 

your tin !” 






SIX TYl’ICAL AMERICAN NOVELISTS 




















JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 



THE WALTER SCOTT OF AMERICA. 

UR first American novelist, and to the present time perhaps the only 
American novelist whose fame is permanently established among 
foreigners, is Janies Feniniore Cooper. While Washington Irving, 
our hrst writer of short stories, several years Cooper’s senior, was so 
strikingly popular in England and America, Cooper’s “Spy” and 
“ Pilot” and the “Last of the Mohicans” went beyond the bounds 
of the English language, and the Spaniard, the Frenchman, the German, the Italian 
and others had placed him beside their own classics and were dividing honors be¬ 
tween him and Sir Walter Scott; and it was they who first called him the Walter 
Scott of America. Nor was this judgment altogether wrong. For six or seven 
years Scott’s Waverly Novels had been appearing, and his “ Ivanhoe,” which was. 
first published in 1820—the first historical novel of the world—had given the clue to 
Cooper for “ The Spy,” which appeared in 1821, the first historical novel of America. 
Both books w^ere translated into foreign languages by the same translators, and made 
for their respective authors quick and lasting fame. 

James Fenimore Cooper was born in Burlington, New Jersey, September 15, 
1789—the same year that George Washington was inaugurated President of the 
United States. His father owned many thousand acres of wild land on the head 
waters of the Susquehanna River in New York, and while James was an infant 
removed thither and built a stately mansion on Otsego Lake, near the point where 
the little river issues forth on its journey to the sea. Around Otsego Hall, as it was 
called, the village of Cooperstown grew up. In this wilderness young Cooper 
passed his childhood, a hundred miles beyond the advancing lines of civilization. 
Along the shores of the beautiful lake, shut in by untouched forests, or in the woods 
themselves, which rose and fell unbroken—except here and there by a pioneer’s hut 
or a trapper’s camp—he passed his boyhood days and slept at night among the 
solemn silence of nature’s primeval grandeur. All the delicate arts of the forest, 
the craft of the woodsman, the trick of the trapper, the stratagem of the Indian 
fighter, the wiley shrewdness of the tawny savage, the hardships and dangers of 
pioneer life were as familiar to Cooper as were the legends of North Britain and the 
stirring ballads of the highlands and the lowlands to Walter Scott. But for this 
experience we should never have had the famous Leather Stocking Tales. 

From this wilderness the boy was sent at the age of thirteen to Yale College, 
where he remained three years, but was too restless and adventurous to devote himself 

371 























372 


JAMES FEXIMOKE COOPER, 


diligently to study and was dismissed in disgrace at sixteen. For one year lie 
shipped before the mast as a common sailor and for the next five years served as a 
midshipman in the United States Navy, making himself master of that knowledge 
and detail of nautical life which he afterwards employed to so much advantage in 
his romances of the sea. 

In 1811 Cooper resigned his post as midshipman, and married Miss Delancey, 
with whom he lived happily for forty years. The first few years of his married 
life were spent in quiet retirement. For some months he resided in Westchester 
County, the scene of his book “ The Bpy.” Then he removed to his old home at 
Cooperstown and took possession of the family mansion, to which he had fallen heir 
through the death of his father. Here he prepared tos|>end his life as a quiet 
country gentleman, and did so until a mere accident called him into authorship. 
Up to that date he seems never to have touched a jien or even thought of one except 
to write an ordinary letter. He was, however, fond of reading, and often read aloud 
to his wife. One day while reading a British novel he looked up and playfully 
said : “ I could write a better book than that myself.” “ Suppose you try,” replied 

his wife, and retiring to his library he wrote a chapter which he read to Mrs. 
Cooper. She was pleased with it and suggested that he continue, which he did, and 
published the book, under the title of “ Precaution,” in 1820. 

No one at that time had thought of writing a novel with the scene laid in 
America, and “ Precaution,” which had an English setting, was .so thoroughly Eng¬ 
lish that it was reviewed in London with no suspicion of its American authorship. 
The success which it met, while not great, impressed Coo]ier that as he had not failed 
with a novel describing British life, of which he knew little, he might succeed with 
one on American life, of which he knew much. It was a happy thought. Scott’s 
“Ivanhoe” had just been read by him and it suggested an American hi.storical 
theme, and he wrote the story of “The Spy,” which he published in 1821. It was 
a tale of the Revolution, in which the central figure, Harvey Birch, the spy, is one 
of the most interesting and effective characters in the realm of romantic literature. 
It quickly followed Scott’s “ Ivanhoe ” into many languages. 

Encouraged by the plaudits from both sides of the x4tlantic Cooper wrote another 
story, “The Pioneers” (1828), which was the first attempt to ])ut into fiction the 
life of the frontier and the character of the backwoodsman. Here Cooper was in 
his element, on firm ground, familiar to him from his infancy, but the book was a 
revelation to the outside world. It is in this work that one of the greatest charac¬ 
ters in fiction, the old backwoodsman Natty Bumppo—the famous Leather-Stock¬ 
ing—appeared and gave his name to a series of tales, comprised, in five volumes, 
which was not finally completed for twenty years. Strange to say, this famous 
series of books was not written in regular order. To follow the story logically the 
reader is recommended to read first the “ Deerslayer,” next the “ Last of the Mohi¬ 
cans,” followed by “The Pathfinder,” then “The Pioneers,” and last “The 
Prairie,” which ends with the death of Leather-Stocking. 

The sea tales of Coo[)er wei-e also suggested by AValter Scott, who published the 
“ Pirate” in 1821. This book was being discu.ssed by Cooper and some friends. 
The latter took the position that Scott could not have been its author since he was a 
lawyer and therefore could not have the knowledge of sea life which the book dis- 


JAMKS FKNIMOKE COOPER 


373 


jilayed. Cooper, being liimself a mariner, declared that it could not have been 
written by a man familiar with the sea. He argued that it lached that detail of 
information which no mariner would have failed to exhibit. To prove this point he 
determined to write a sea tale, and in 1823 his book “ The Pilot’’ a})peared, which 
was the first genuine salt-water novel ever written and to this day is one of the best. 
Tom (hffin, the hero of this novel, is the only one of all Cooper’s characters worthy 
to take a place beside Leather-Stocking, and the two books were published within 
two yeai-s of each other. In 1829 appeared “ The Red Rover,” which is wholly a 
tale of the ocean, as “ The Last of the Mohicans ” is wholly a tale of the forest. In 
all, Coo])er wrote ten sea tales, which with his land stories established the fact that 
he was equally at home whether on the green billows or under the green trees. 

In 1839 Coo])er ])ublished his “ History of the United States Navy,” which is to 
this day the only authority on the subject for the ])eriod of which it treats. He 
also wrote many other novels on American subjects and soTue eight or ten like 
“ Bravo,” “ The Headsman ” and others on European themes; but it is by “ The 
Spy,” the five Leather-Stocking tales, and four or five of his sea tales that his 
fame has been secured and will be maintained. 

In 1822, after “The Spy” had made Cooper famous, he removed to New York, 
where he lived for a jieriod of four years, one of the most po{)ular men in the 
metropolis. His force of character, • big-heartedness, and genial, companionable 
nature—notwithstanding the fact that he was contentious and frequently got into 
the most heated discussions—made him unusually popular with those who knew 
him. He had many friends, and his friends were the best citizens of New Yoi‘k. 
He founded the “ Bread and Cheese Lunch,” to which belonged Chancellor Kent, 
the poets Eitzgreen Halleck and Win. Cullen Bryant, Samuel Morse, the inventor 
of the telegraph, and many other representatives of science, literature, and the 
learned professions. In 182(3 he sailed for Europe, iu various ]iarts of which he 
resided for a period of six years. Before his departure he was tendered a dinner in 
New York, which was attended by many of the most prominent men of the nation. 
Washington Irving had gone to the Old World eleven years before and traveled 
throughout Great ilritain and over the Continent, but Cooper’s works, though it was 
but six years since his lirst volume was published, were at this time more widely 
known than those of Irving ; and with the author of the “ Sketchbook ” he divided 
the honors which the Old AYorld so generously showered upon those two brilliant 
re})resentatives of the New. 

Many ])leasant pages might be tilled with the records of Cooper’s six years in 
Eurojie, during which time he enjoyed the association and respect of the greatest 
literary personages of the Old World. It would be interesting to tell how Sir Walter 
Scott sought him out in Paris and renewed the acquaintance again in London ; how 
he lived in friendship and intiniacty with General Lafayette at the French capital; 
to tell of his associations with Wordsworth and Rogers in London ; his intimate 
friendship with the great Italian Greenough, and his fondness for Italy, which 
country he preferred above all others outside of America; of the delightful little 
villa where he lived in Florence, where he said he could look out upon green leaves 
and Avrite to the music of the birds ; to picture him settled for a summer in Naples; 
living in Tasso’s villa at Sarento, writing his stories in the same house in which the 


374 


JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 


great Latin author had lived, with the same glorious view of the sea and the bay, and 
the surf dashing almost against its walls. But space forlhds that we should indulge 
in recounting these' })leasant reminiscences. J^et it he said that wherever he was 
he was thoroughly and pronouncedly an American. He was much annoyed by the 
ignorance and prejudice of the English in all that related to his country. In 
France he vigorously defended the system of American government in a public 
])aniphlet which he issued in favor of General Lafayette, u])on whom the public 
])ress was making an attack. He was ecjually in earnest in bringing forward the 
claims of our poets, and was accustomed at literary meetings and dinner parties to 
carry volumes of Bryant, Halleck, Drake and others, from which he read quotations 
to prove his assertions of their merits. Almost every prominent American who 
visited Europe during his seven years’ sojourn abroad brought back })leasant recol¬ 
lections of his intercourse with the gi'eat and patriotic novelist. 

Cooper returned to America in 1833, the same year that AVashington Irving came 
back to his native land. He retii-ed to his home at Cooperstown, wliere he spent 
the remaining nineteen years of his life, dying on the 14th day of iSejMember, 1852, 
one day before the sixty-second anniversary of his birth. His ])alatial home at 
Coo})erstown, as were also his various places of residence in New York and foreign 
lands, were always o])en to his deserving countrymen, and many are the ambitious 
young aspirants in art, literatui'e and politics who have left his hospitable roof with 
higher ideals, loftier ambitions and also with a more exalted patriotism. 

A few days after his death a meeting of ju'ominent men was held in New York 
in honor of their distinguished countryman. AVashingion Irving ])resided and 
AA^lliam Cullen Bryant delivered an oration j)aying htting tribute to the genius of 
the first great American novelist, who was first to show how fit for fiction were the 
scenes, the characters, and the history of his native land. Nearly fifty years have 
passed since that day, but Cooper’s men of the sea and his men of the forest and the 
])lain still survive, because they deserve to live, because they were true when they 
were written, and remain to-day the best of their kind. Though other fashions in 
fiction have come and gone and other novelists have a more finished art nowadays, 
no one of them all has succeeded more comjdetely in doing what he tried to do than 
did James Fenimore Cooper. 

If we should visit Cooperstown, New York, the most interesting spot we should 
see would be the grave of America’s first great novelist; and the one striking feature 
about it would be the marble statue of Leather Stocking, with dog and gun, over¬ 
looking the last resting-place of his great creator. Then we should visit the house 
and go into the library and sit in the chair and lean over the table where he was 
created. Then down to the beautiful Otsego I^ake, and as the little pleasure steamer 
comes into view we })eer to catch the gilded name painted on its side. Nearer it 
comes, and we read with delight “ Natty Bumppo,” the real name of Leather 
Stocking. ()t.sego Hall, the cemetery nnd the lake alike, are a shrine to the memory 
of Cooper and this greatest hero of American fiction. And we turn away deter¬ 
mined to read again the whole of the Leather iStocking Tales. 


JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 


375 


ENCOUNTER WITH A PANTHER. 


(from “ THE 

Y this time they had gained the summit of 
the mountain, where they left the highway, 
and pursued their course under the shade 
of the stately trees that crowned the eminence. 
The day was becoming warm, and the girls 
plunged more deeply into the forest, as they found 
its invigorating coolness agreeably contrasted to the 
excessive heat they had experienced in the ascent. 
The conversation, as if by mutual consent, was en¬ 
tirely changed to the little incidents and scenes of 
their walk, and every tall pine, and every shrub or 
flower called forth some simple expression of ad¬ 
miration. In this manner they proceeded along the 
margin of the precipice, catching occasional glimpses 
of the placid Otsego, or pausing to listen to the 
rattling of wheels and the sounds of hammers that 
rose from the valley, to mingle the signs of men with 
the scenes of nature, when Elizabeth suddenly 
started and exclaimed; 

“ Listen! There are the cries of a child on this 
mountain ! Is there a clearing near us, or can some 
little one have strayed from its parents ? ” 

“ Such things frequently happen,” returned Louisa. 
“ Let us follow the sounds ; it 'may be a wanderer 
starving on the hill.” 

U^rged by this consideration, the females pursued 
the low, mournful sounds, that proceeded from the 
forest, with quick impatient steps. More than once 
the ardent Elizabeth was on the point of announcing 
that she saw the suiferer, when Louisa caught her by 
the arm, and pointing behind them, cried, “ Look at 
the dog ! ’ 

Brave had been their companion from the time the 
voice of his young mistress lured him from his kennel, 
to the present moment. His advanced age had long 
before deprived him of his activity ; and when his 
companions stopped to view the scenery, or to add to 
their bouquets, the mastiff would layhis huge frame 
on the ground and await their movements, with his 
eyes closed, and a listle.ssne.ss in his air that ill ac¬ 
corded with the character of a protector. But when, 
aroused by this cry from Louisa, Miss Temple turned, 
she saw the dog with his eyes keenly set on some 
distant object, his head bent near the ground, and his 


PIONEERS.”) 

hair actually rising on his body, through fright or 
anger. It was most probably the latter, for he was 
growling in a low key, and occasionally showing his 
teeth in a manner that would have terrified his mis¬ 
tress, had she not so well known his good qualities. 

“ Brave ! ” she said, “ be quiet, Brave ! what do 
you see,- fellow ? ” 

At the sound of her voice, the rage of the mastiff, 
instead of being at all diminished, was very sensibly 
increased. He stalked in front of the ladies, and 
seated himself at the feet of his mistress, growling 
louder than before, and occasionally giving vent to his 
ire by a short, surly barking. 

“ What does he see ? ” said Elizabeth ; “ there 
must be some animal in sight.” 

Hearing no answer from her companion. Miss 
Temple turned her head, and beheld Louisa, stand¬ 
ing with her face whitened to the color of death, and 
her finger pointing upward, with a sort of flickering, 
convulsed motion. The quick eye of Elizabeth 
glanced in the direction indicated by her friend, 
where she saw the fierce front and glaring eyes of a 
female panther, fixed on them in horrid malignity, 
and threatening to leap. 

“ Let us fly,” exclaimed Elizabeth, grasping the 
arm of Louisa, whose form yielded like melting snow. 

There was not a single feeling in the temperament 
of Elizabeth Temple that could prompt her to desert 
a companion in such an extremity. She fell on her 
knees, by the side of the inanimate Louisa, tearing 
from the person of her friend, with instinctive readi¬ 
ness, such parts of her dress as might obstruct her 
respiration, and encouraging their only safeguard, the 
dog, at the same time, by the sounds of her voice. 

“ Courage, Brave ! ” she cried, her own tones be¬ 
ginning to tremble, “ courage, courage, good Brave ! ” 

A quarter-grown cub, that had hitherto been un¬ 
seen, now appeared, dropping from the branches of a 
sapling that grew under the shade of the beech which 
held its dam. This ignorant, but vicious creature, 
approached the dog, imitating the actions and sounds 
of its parent, but exhibiting a strange mixture of the 
playfulness of a kitten with the ferocity of its race. 
^ Standing on its hind-legs, it would rend the bark of a 








376 


JAMES FEXIMOKE COOPER. 


tree with its forepaws, and play the antics of a cat; 
and then, by lashing itself with its tail, growling and 
scratching the earth, it would attempt the manifesta¬ 
tions of anger that rendered its parent so territic. 
All this time Brave stood firm and undaunted, his 
short tail erect, his body drawn backward on its 
haunches, and his eyes following the movements of 
both dam and cub. At every gambol jdayed by the 
latter, it approached nigher to the dog, the growling 
of the three becoming more horrid at each moment, 
until the younger beast, overleaping its intended 
bound, fell directly before the mastitf. There was a 
moment of fearful cries and struggles, but they ended 
almost as soon as commenced, by the cub appearing 
in the air, hurled from the jaws of Brave, with a 
violence that sent it against a tree so forcibly as to 
render it completely senseless. 

J'llizabeth witnessed the short struggle, and her 
blood was warming with the triumph of the dog 
when .she saw the form of the old panther in the air, 
springing twenty feet from the branch of the beech 
to the back of the mastiff. No words of ours can 
describe the fury of the conflict that followed. It 
was a confused struggle on the dry leaves, accom- 
jianied by loud and terrific cries. Miss Temple con¬ 
tinued on her knees, bending over the form of Loui.sa, 
her eyes fixed on the animals, with an interest so 
horrid, and yet so intense, that .she almost forgot her 
own stake in the result. So rapid and vigorous were 
the bounds of the inhabitant of the fore.st, that its 
active frame seemed constantly in the air, while the 
dog nobly breed his foe at each successive leap. 
When the panther lighted on the .‘^boulders of the 
mastiff, which was its constant aim, old Brave, 
though torn with her talons, and stained with his 
own blood, that already flowed from a dozen wounds, 
would shake off his furious foe like a feather, and 
rearing on his hind-legs, ru.sh to the fray again, with 
jaws distended and a dauntless eye. But age, and 
his jiampered life, greatly dis(|ualified the noble mas¬ 
tiff for such a struggle. In everything but courage 
he was only the ve.stige of what he had once been. 
A higher bound than ever raised the wary and 
furious beast far beyond the reach of the dog, who 
was making a desperate but fruitle.ss dash at her, 
from which .she alighted in a favorable position, on 
the back of her aged foe. For a single moment only 


could the panther remain there, the great strength of 
the dog returning with a convulsive effort. But 
Elizabeth saw, as Brave fastened his teeth in the side 
of his enemy, that the collar of brass around his 
neck, which had been glittering throughout the fray, 
was of the color of blood, and directly, that his frame 
was sinking to the earth, where it soon lay prostrate 
and helpless. Several mighty efforts of the wild-cat 
to extricate herself from the jaws of the dog fol¬ 
lowed, but they were fruitless, until the mastiff turned 
on his back, his lips collapsed, and his teeth loosened, 
when the short convulsions and stillness that suc¬ 
ceeded announced the death of poor Brave. 

Elizabeth now lay wholly at the mercy of the 
beast. There is said to be something in the front of 
the image of the Maker that daunts the hearts of 
the inferior beings of his creation ; and it would seem 
that some such power in the present instance sus¬ 
pended the threatened blow. The eyes of the mon¬ 
ster and the kneeling maiden met for an instant, 
when the former stooped to examine her fallen foe ; 
next to scent her luckless cub. From the latter ex¬ 
amination it turned, however, with its eyes appar¬ 
ently emitting flashes of fire, its tail la.shing its sides 
furioui^ly, and its claws projecting inches from her 
broad feet. 

Miss Temple did not or could not move. Her 
hands were clasped in the attitude of prayer, but her 
eyes were still drawn to her terrible enemy—her 
cheeks were blanched to the whiteness of marble, 
and her lips were slightly separated with horror. 
The moment seemed now to have arrived for the 
fiital termination, and the beautiful figure of Eliza¬ 
beth was bowing meekly to the .stroke, when a ru.st- 
ling of leaves behind .seemed rather to mock the 
organs than to meet her ears. 

“ Hist! hist!” said a low voice, “ stoop lower, gal 1 
your bonnet hides the creature's head.” 

It was rather the yielding of nature than a com¬ 
pliance with this unexpected order, that caused the 
head of our heroine to sink on her bosom; when 
she heard the report of the rifle, the whiz of the 
bullet, and the enraged ciies of the beast, who 
was rolling over on the earth, biting its own flesh, 
and tearing the twigs and branches within its reach. 
At the next instant the form of Leather-Stocking 
rushed by her, and he called aloud: 







JAMES FENIMOKE COOPER. 


377 


“ Come in, Hector, come in old fool; ’tis a hard- 
lived animal, and may jump agin.” 

Natty fearlessly maintained his position in front of 
the females, notwithstanding the violent bounds and 
threatening aspect of the wounded panther, which 


gave several indications of returning strength and 
ferocity until his rifle was again loaded, when he 
stepped up to the enraged animal, and, placing the 
muzzle close to its head, every spark of life was ex¬ 
tinguished by the discharge. 


THE CAPTURE OF A WHALE. 



031,” cried Barnstable, starting, “ there is 
the blow of a whale.” 

“ Ay, ay, sir,” returned the cockswain, 
with undisturbed composure ; “ here is his spout, not 
half a mile to seaward ; the easterly gale has driven 
the Greater to leeward, and he begins to find himself 
in shoal water. He’s been sleeping, while he should 
have been working to windward !” 

“ The fellow takes it coolly, too! he’s in no hurry 
to get an ofling.” 

“ I rather conclude, sir,” said the cockswain, roll¬ 
ing over his tobacco in his mouth very composedly, 
while his little sunken eyes began to twinkle with 
jileasure at the sight, “ the gentleman has lost his 
reckoning, and don’t know which way to head, to 
take himself back into blue water.” 

“ ’Tis a fin back !” exclaimed the lieutenant; “ he 
will soon make headway, and be oflf.” 

V No, sir ; ’tis a right whale,” answered Tom ; “ I 
saw his spout; he threw up a pair of as pretty 
rainbows as a Christian would wish to look at. He’s 
a raal oil-butt, that fellow !” 

Barnstable laughed, and exclaimed, in joyous 
tones— 

“ Give strong way, my hearties ! There seems 
nothing better to be done ; let ns have a stroke of a 
harpoon at that impudent rascal.” 

The men shouted spontaneously, and the old cock¬ 
swain suffered his solemn visage to relax into a small 
laugh, while the whaleboat sprang forward like a 
courser for the goal. During the few minutes they 
were pulling towards their game, long Tom arose 
from his crouching attitude in the .stern sheets, and 
transferred his huge frame to the bows of the boat, 
where he made such preparation to strike the whale 
as the occa.sion re(|uired. 

The tub, containing about half of a whale line, was 
placed at the feet of Barnstable, who had been pre¬ 


paring an oar to steer with, in place of the rudder, 
which was unshipped in order that, if necessary, the 
boat might be whirled around when not advancing. 

Their approach was utterly unnoticed by the 
monster of the deep, who continued to amuse himself 
with throwing the water in two circular spouts high 
into the air, occasionally flourishing the broad flukes of 
his tail with graceful but terrific force, until the 
hardy seamen w’ere within a few hundred feet of 
him, when he suddenly cast his head downwards, 
and, without apparent effort, reared his immense body 
for many feet above the water, waving his tail violently, 
and producing a whizzing noise, that sounded like the 
rushing of winds. 'J’he cockswain stood erect, poising 
his harpoon, ready for the blow; but, when he beheld 
the creature assuming his formidable attitude, he 
waved his hand to his commander, who instantly 
.signed to his men to cease rowing. In this .situation 
the sportsmen rested a few moments, while the whale 
struck several blows on the water in rapid succession, 
the noi.se of which re-echoed along the cliflPs like the 
hollow reports of so many cannon. After the wanton 
exhibition .of his terrible strength, the monster sunk 
again into his native element, and slowly disappeared 
from the eyes of his juirsuers. 

“Which way did he head, Tom?” cried Barn¬ 
stable, the moment the whale was out of sight. 

“ Pretty much up and down, sir,” returned the 
cockswain, whose eye was gradually brightening with 
the excitement of the sport; “ he’ll soon run his nose 
against the bottom, if he stands long on that course, 
and will be glad enough to get another snuff' of pure 
air; send her a few fathoms to .starboard, sir, and I 
promise we shall not be out of his track.” 

The conjecture of the experienced old seaman 
proved true, for in a few minutes the water broke 
near them, and another spout was cast into the air, 
when the huge animal rushed for half his length in 








JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 



the same direction, and fell on the sea with a turbu¬ 
lence and foam equal to that which is produced by 
the launching of a vessel, for the first time, into its 
proper element. After the evolution, the whale 
rolled heavily, and seemed to rest from further efforts. 

His slightest movements were closely watched by 
Barnstable and his cockswain, and, when he was in a 
state of comparative rest, the former gave a signal 
to his crew to ply their oars once more. A few long 
and vigorous strokes sent the boat directly up to the 
broadside of the whale, with its bows pointing toward one 
of the fins, which was, at times, as the animal yielded 
sluggishly to the action of the waves, exposed to view. 

The cockswain poised his harpoon with much pre¬ 
cision and then darted it from him with a \aolence 
that buried the iron in the body of their foe. The 
instant the blow was made, long Tom shouted, with 
singular earnestness,— 

“ Starn all!” 

“ Stern all!” echoed Barnstable; when the obe¬ 
dient seainan, by united efforts, forced the boat in a 
backward direction, beyond the reach of any blow 
from their formidable antagonist. The alarmed 
animal, however, meditated no such resi.stance ; ignor¬ 
ant of his own power, and of the insignificance of 
his enemies, he sought refuge in flight. One moment 
<if stujdd surprise succeeded the entrance of the 
iron, when he cast his huge tail into the air with a 
violence that threw the sea around him into in¬ 
creased commotion, and then disappeared, with the 
quickne.ss of lightning, amid a cloud of foam. 

“ Snub him !” shouted Barnstable; “ hold on, Tom ; 
he rises already.” 

“ Ay, ay, sir,” replied the composed cockswain, 
seizing the line, which was running out of the boat 
with a velocity that rendered such a manoeuvre 
rather hazardous. 

The boat was dragged violently in his wake, and 
cut through the billows with a terrific rapidity, that 
at moments appeared to bury the slight fabric in the 
ocean. When long Tom beheld his victim throwing 
his spouts on high again, he pointed with exultation 
to the jetting fluid, which was streaked with the 
deep red of blood, and cried,— 

“ Ay, I’ve touched the fellow’s life ! It must be 
more than two foot of blubber that stops my iron 
from reaching the life of any whale that ever sculled 
the ocean.” 


“ I believe you have saved yourself the trouble of 
using the bayonet you have rigged for a lance,” said 
his commander, who entered into the sport with all 
the ardor of one whose youth had been chiefly passed 
in such pursuits ; “ feel your line. Master C’offin ; can 
we haul alongside of our enemy ? I like not the 
course he is steering, as he tows us from the 
schooner.” 

“ ’Tis the creater’s way, sir,” said the cockswain ; 
“ you know they need the air in their nostrils wdien 
they run, the same as a man ; but lay hold, boys, and 
let us haul up to him.” 

The seaman now seized their whale-line, and slowly 
drew their boat to within a few feet of the tail of 
the fish, whose progress became sensibly less rapid as 
he grew weak with the loss of blood. In a few 
minutes he stopped running, and appeared to roll 
uneasily on the water, as if suffering the agony of 
death. 

‘•Shall we pull in and finish him, Tom?” cried 
Barnstable; “ a few sets from your bayonet would 
do it.” 

The cockswain stood examining his game with cool 
discretion, and replied to this interrogatory,— 

“No, sir, no; he’s going into his flurry; there’s 
no occasion for disgracing ourselves by using a soldier’s 
weapon in taking a whale. Starn off, sir, starn oflf! 
the creater’s in his flurry.” 

The warning of the prudent cockswain was promptly 
obeyed, and the boat cautiously drew off to a dis¬ 
tance, leaving to the animal a clear space while imder 
its dying agonies. From a state of perfect rest, the 
terrible monster threw its tail on high as when in 
sport, but its blows were trebled in rapidity and vio¬ 
lence, till all was hid from view by a pyramid of 
foam, that was deeply dyed with blood. The roar¬ 
ings of the fi.sh were like the bellowingsof a herd of 
bulls, and, to one who was ignorant of the fact, it 
would have appeared as if a thousand monsters were 
engaged in deadly combat behind the bloody mist 
that obstructed the view. Gradually these efforts 
subsided, and, when the di.scolored water again settled 
down to the long and regular swell of the ocean, the 
fish was seen exhausted, and yielding passively to its 
fate. As life departed, the enormous black mass 
rolled to one side; and when the white and glisten¬ 
ing .skin of the belly became apparent, the seamen 
well knew that their victory was achieved. 




NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


“the greatest of americax romancers.” 


() black knight in Sir AValter Scott’s novels, nor the red Indians of 
Cooj)er, nor liis famous pioneer, Leather Stocking of the forest, nor 
his long Tom of the ocean, ever seemed more truly romantic than 
I do Hawthorne’s stern and gloomy Calvinists of “The Scarlet Let- 
! ter,” and “The House of Seven Gables,” or his Italian hero of “The 
^ Marble Faun.” 

We have characterized Hawthorne as the greatest of American romancers. We 
might have omitted the word American, for he has no equal in romance perhaps in 
the world of letters. An eminent critic declares: “His genius was greater than 
that of- the idealist, Emerson. In all his mysticism his style was always clear and 
exceedingly graceful, while in those delicate, varied and j)ermanent effects which 
are gaiiied by a happy arrangement of words in their sentences, together with that 
unerring directness and unswerving force which characterize his wiltings, no author 
in modern times has equalled him. To the rhetorician, his style is a study; to the 
lay reader, a delight that eludes analysis. He is the most emineiu representative of 
the American spirit in literature.” 

It was in the old town of Salem, Massachusetts—where his Puritan ancestors had 
lived for nearly two hundred years—with its haunted memories of witches and 
strange sea tales; its stories of Endicott and the Indians, and the somhre traditions 
of witchcraft and Puritan persecution that Nathaniel Hawthorne was born July 4, 
1804. And it was in this grim, ancient city by the sea that the life of the renowned 
romancer was greatly bound up. In his childhood the town was already falling to 
decay, and his lonely surroundings filled his young imagination with a wierdness 
that found expression in the books of his later life, and impressed upon his character 
a seriousness that clung to him ever after. His father was a sea-captain,—but a 
most melancholy and silent man,—who died when Nathaniel was four years old. 
His mother lived a sad and secluded life, and the hoy thus early learned to exist in 
a strange and imaginative world of his own creation. So fond of seclusion did he 
become that even after his graduation from college in 1825, he returned to his old 
haunt at Salem and resumed his solitary, dreamy existence. For twelve years, from 
1825 to 1887, he went nowhere, he saw no one; he worked in his room by day, 
reading and writing; at twilight he wandered out along the shore, or through the 
darkened streets of the town. Certainly this was no attractive life to most young 
men; but for Hawthorne it had its fascination and during this time he was storing 

379 





























■380 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 



Ills mind, forming liis st}de, training liis imagination and preparing for the splendid 
literary fame of his later years. 

Hawthorne received his early education in Salem, jxirtly at the school of Joseph 
E. Worcester, the author of “Worcester’s Dictionary.” He entered Bowdoin Col¬ 
lege in 1821. The poet, Longfellow, and John S. C. Abbott were his classmates; 
and Franklin Pierce—one class in advance of him—was his close friend. He 
graduated in 1825 without any special distinction. His first book, “Fanshawe,” 
a novel, was issued in 1826, but so poor was its success that he sujuiressed its fur- 


“THE OLD MANSE,” CONCORD, MASS. 

Built for Emerson’s grandfather. In this house Ralph Waldo Emerson dwelt for ten years, and, here, in 
the same room where Emerson wrote “Nature’’and other philosophic essays, Hawthorne prepared his 
“ Twice Told Tales,’’ and “Mosses from an Old Manse.” He declares the four years (1842-1846) spent in 
this house were the happiest of his life. 

ther publication. Subsequently he placed the manuscript of a collection of stories 
in the hands of his publisher, but timidly withdrew and destroyed them. His first 
practical encouragement was received from Samuel G. Goodrich, who jmblished four 
stories in the “Token,” one of the annuals of that time, in 1881. Mr. Goodrich 
also engaged Hawthorne as editor of the “American Magazine of Useful and Enter¬ 
taining Knowledge,” which position he occupied from 1886 to 1888. About this 
time he also contributed some of his best stories to the “New England Magazine,” 
“The Knickerbocker,” and the “Democratic Review.” It was a part of these maga¬ 
zine stories which he collected and published in 1887 in the volume entitled, “Twice 
Told Tales,” embodying the fruits of his twelve years’ labor. 







NATHANIEL 11A WTHO RNE, 


38 r 

This hook stamped the autlior as a man of stronger imagination and deeper 
insight into human nature than Washington Irving evinced in his famous sketches 
of the Hudson or Cooper in his frontier stories, for delightful as was Irving’s writ¬ 
ings and vivid as were Cooper’s pictures, it was jilain to be seen that Hawthorne 
liad a richer style and a firmer grasp of the art of fiction than either of them. 
Longfellow, the jioet, reviewed the book with hearty commendation, and Poe pre¬ 
dicted a brilliant future for the writer if he would aliandon allegory. Thus 
encouraged, Hawthorne came out from his seclusion into the world again, and mixed 
once more with his fellow-men. His friend, the historian, Bancroft, secured him a 
jiositioii in the Custom House at Salem, in 1839, which he held for two years. This 
position he lost through political jobbery on a trumped-up charge. For a few 
months he then joined in the Brook Farm settlement, though he was never in 
sympathy with the movement; nor was he a believer in the transcendental notions 
of Emerson and his school. He remained a staunch Democrat in the midst of the 
Abolitionists. His note-books were full of his discontent with the life at the Brook 
Farm. His observations of this enterprise took shape in the“Blythedale Romance” 
which is the only literary memorial of the association. The heroine of tliis novel 
was Margaret Fuller, under the name of “ Zenobia,” and the description of the 
ilrowning of Zenobia—a fate which Margaret Fuller hatl met—is the most tragic 
passage in all the writings of the author. 

In 1842 Hawthorne married Miss Sophia Peabody—a most fortunate and happy 
marriage—and the young couple moved to Concord where they lived in the house 
known as the “Old Manse,” which had been built for Emerson’s grandfather, and 
in which Emerson himself dwelt ten years. He chose for his study the same room 
in which the philosopher had written his famous book “ Nature.” Hawthoi-ne 
declares that the happiest period of his life were the foui- years spent in the “ Old 
Manse.” While living there he collected another lot of miscellaneous stories’and 
published them in 1845 as a second volume of “Twice-Told Tales,” find the next 
vear came his “ Mosses from an Old Manse,” being also a collection from his pub¬ 
lished writings. In 1846 a depleted income and larger demands of a growing 
family made it necessary for him to seek a business engagement. Through a friend 
lie received an appointment as Surveyor of Customs at Salem, and again removed 
to the old town where he was born forty-two years before. It was during his 
engagement here, from 1846 to 1849, that he jilanned and wrote his famous book 
“The Scarlet Letter,” which was published in 1850. 

A broader experience is needed to compose a full-grown novel than to sketch a 
short tale. Scott was more than fifty when he })ubli.shed “ Waverly.” Cooper 
wrote the “ Spy ” when thirty-three. Thackeray, the author of “ Vanity Fair,” 
Avas almost forty when he finished that work. “ Adam Bede ” appeared when 
George Elliot was in her fortieth year; and the “Scarlet Letter,” greater than them 
all, did not appear until 1850, when its author was in his forty-seventh year. All 
critics readilv agree that this romance is the masterpiece in American fiction. 
The only novel in the United States that can be coinjiared with it is JMrs. Stowe’s 
“ Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” and, as a study of a type of life—Puritan life in New Eng- 
]j,jid—“ The Scarlet Letter ” is superior to Mrs. Stowe’s immortal work. One-half 
a century has ])assed siii(*e “The Scarlet Letter” was written ; but it stands to-day 
more ])opular than ever before. 


382 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


Enumerated briefly, the books written by Hawthorne in the order of their publi¬ 
cation are as follows: “ Fanshawe,” a novel (1826), suppressed by the author: 
“Twice-Told '^Pales” (1837), a collection of magazine stories ; “Twice-Told Tales” 
(second volume, 1845) ;“ Mosses from an Old Manse” (1846), written while he 
lived at the “ Old Manse ” ; “ The Scarlet Letter ” (1850), his greatest book ; “ The 
House of Seven Gables” (1851), written while he lived at Lenox, Massachusetts; 
“ The Wonder Book ” (1851), a volume of classic stories for children ; “ The Bly- 
thedale Bomance ” (1852); “ Life of Franklin Pierce ” (1852), which was written to 
assist his friend Pierce, who was running for President of the United States ; “Tangle- 
wood Tales” (1853), another work for children, continuing the classic legends of 
his “ Wonder Book,” reciting the adventures of those who went forth to seek the 
“ Golden Fleece,” to explore the labyrinth of the “Minotaur” and sow the “Dragon’s 
Teeth.” Pierce was elected President in 1853 and rewarded Hawthorne by 
appointing him Consul to Liverpool. This position he filled for four years and 
afterwards spent three years in traveling on the Continent, during which time he 
gathered material for the greatest of his books—next to “ The Scarlet Letter ”— 
entitled “ The Marble Faun,” which w^as brought out in England in 1860, and the 
same year Mr. Hawthorne returned to America and spent the remainder of his life 
at “ The Wayside ” in Concord. During his residence here he wrote for the 
“ Atlantic Monthly ” the papers which were collected and published in 1863 under 
the title of “ Our Old Home.” After Mr. Hawthorne’s death, his unpublished 
manuscripts, “ The Dolliver Romance,” “ Septimius Felton ” and “ Dr. Grimshawe’s 
Secret,” were published. Mrs. Hawthorne, also, edited and published her husband’s 
“ American and English Note-Books ” and his “ French and Italian Note-Books ” 
in 1869. The best life of the author is perhaps that written by his son, Julian 
Hawthorne, which appeared in 1885, entitled “ Nathaniel Hawthorne and His AYife; 
a Biography.” 

A new and complete edition of Hawthorne’s works has been lately issued in 
twenty volumes; also a compact and illustrated library edition in seven volumes. 

Nathaniel Hawthorne died May 18, 1864, while traveling with his friend and 
college-mate, Ex-President Pierce, in the White Mountains, and was buried near 
where Emerson and Thoreau were later placed in C’oncord Cemetery. Emerson, 
Longfellow, Lowell and AVhittier were at the funeral. His publisher, Mr. Field, 
was also there and wrote: “We carried him through the blossoming orchards of 
Concord and laid him down in a group of pines on the hillside, the unfinished 
romance which had cost him such anxiety laid upon his coffin.” Mr. Longfellow, 
in an exquisite poem describes the scene, and referring to the uncompleted romance 
in the closing lines says: 

“ Ah, who shall lift that wand of magic power, 

And the lost clue regain ? 

The unfinished window in Alladin's tower 
Unfinished must remain.” 

The noble wife, who had been the inspiration and practical stimulus of the great 
romancer, survived her distinguished husband nearly seven years. She died in 
London, aged sixty, February 26, 1871, and was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, 
near the grave of Leigh Hunt. 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


383 


EMERSON AND THE EMERSONITES. 


(from “ MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE.”) 


HERE were circumstances around me which j 
made it difficult to view the world pre¬ 
cisely as it exists; for severe and sober 
as was the Old Manse, it was necessary to go but a 
little way beyond its threshold before meeting with ^ 
stranger moral shapes of men than might have been ! 
encountered elsewhere in a circuit of a thousand | 
miles. These hobgoblins of flesh and blood were j 
attracted thither by the wide spreading influence of 
a great original thinker who had his earthly abode at 
the opposite extremity of our village. His mind 
acted upon other minds of a certain constitution with | 
wonderful magnetism, and drew many men upon long 
pilgrimages to speak with him face to face. 

Young visionaries, to whom just so much of in¬ 
sight had been imparted as to make life all a laby¬ 
rinth around them, came to seek the clew which 
should guide them out of their self-involved bewilder¬ 
ment. Gray-headed theorists, whose systems—at first 
air—had finally imprisoned them in a fiery framework, 
traveled painfully to his door, not to ask deliverance, 
but to invite the free spirit into their own thralldom. 
People that had lighted upon a new thought—or 
thought they had fancied new—came to Emerson as 
a finder of a glittering gem hastens to a lapidary to 
ascertain its quality and value. Encertain, troubled, 
earnest wanderers throu<rh the midnight of the moral 
world beheld his intellectual fire as a beacon burning 
upon a hill-top, and climbing the difficult ascent, 
looked forth into the surrounding obscurity more 
hopefully than hitherto. The light revealed objects 
unseen before :—mountains, gleaming lakes, glimpses 
of creation among the chaos: but also, as was un¬ 
avoidable, it attracted bats and owls and the whole 
host of night-birds, which flapped their dusty wings 
against the gazer’s eyes, and sometimes were mistaken 
for fowls of angelic feather. Such delusions al¬ 



ways hover nigh whenever a beacon-fire of truth is 
kindled. 

For myself there had been epochs of my life when 
I too might have asked of this prophet the master- 
word that should solve me the riddle of the uni¬ 
verse ; but now, being happy, I felt as if there were 
no question to be put; and therefore admired Emer¬ 
son as a poet of deep beauty and austere tenderness, 
but sought nothing from him as a philosopher. It 
was good, nevertheless, to meet him in the wood- 
paths, or sometimes in our avenue, with that pure 
intellectual gleam ditfused about his presence, like 
the garment of a shining one; and he so quiet, so 
simple, so without pretension, encountering each man 
alive as if expecting to receive more than he could 
impart. And in truth, the heart of many a man 
had, perchance, inscriptions which he could not read. 
But it was impossible to dwell in his vicinity without 
inhaling more or less the mountain atmosphere of his 
lofty thought, which in the brains of .some people 
wrought a singular giddiness—new truth being as 
heady as new wine. 

Never was a poor country village infected with 
such a variety of queer, strangely-dressed, oddly- 
behaved mortals, most of whom took upon themselves 
to be important agents of this world’s destiny, yet 
were .simply bores of the first water. Suoh, I imagine, 
is the invariable character of persons who crowd so 
closely about an original thinker as to draw in his 
unuttered breath, and thus become imbued with a 
false originality. This triteness of noveltry is enough 
to make any man of common sense blaspheme at all 
ideas of less than a century’s standing, and pray that 
the world may be petrified and rendered immovable 
in precisely the worst moral and physical state that it 
ever yet arrived at, rather than be benefitted by such 
sc.heme.s of such philosophers. 


PEARL. 


(the scarlet letter, a romance. 1850 .) 


E have as yet hardly spoken of the infant; 
that little creature, whose innocent life 
had sprung, by the in.scrutable decree of 
Providence, a lovely and immortal flower, out of the 



rank luxuriance of a guilty passion. How strange it 
seemed to the sad woman, as she watched the growth, 
and the beauty that became every day more brilliant, 
and the intelligence that threw its quivering sunshine 














3^4 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 


over the tiny features of this child ! Her Pearl!— 
For so had Hester called her; not as a name expres¬ 
sive of her aspect, which had nothing of the calm, 
white, unimpassioned lustre that would be indicated 
by the comparison. But she named the infant 
“ I’earl,” as being of great price,—purchased with 
all she had,—her mother’s only treasure! How 
strange, indeed! Men had marked this woman’s 
sin by a scarlet letter, which had such potent and 
di.sastrous efficacy that no human sympathy could 
reach her, save it were sinful like herself. God, as 
a direct consequence of the sin which was thus | 
punished, had given her a lovely child, whose place 
was on that same dishonored bosom, to connect her 
parent forever with the race and descent of mortals, 
and to be finally a blessed soul in heaven ! Yet 
these thoughts affected Hester Prynne less with | 
hope than apprehension. She knew that her deed , 
had been evil; she could have no faith, therefore, 
that its result would be good. Day after day, she 
looked fearfully into the child’s expanding nature, 
ever dreading to detect some dark and wild pecu¬ 
liarity, that should correspond with the guiltiness to 
which she owed her being. 

Certainly, there was no physical defect. By its 
perfect shape, its vigor, and its natural dexterity in 
the use of all its untried limbs, the infant was worthy j 
to have been brought forth in Eden ; worthy to have 
been left there, to be the plaything of the angels, 
after the world’s first parents were driven out. The 
child had a native grace which does not invariably 
coexist with faultless beauty; its attire, however 
simple, always impressed the beholder as if it were 
the very garb that precisely became it best. But 
little Pearl was not clad in rustic weeds. Her mother, 
with a morbid purpose that may be better understood 
hereafter, had bought the riche.st tissues that could 
be procured, and allowed her imaginative faculty its 
full play in the arrangement and decoration of the 
dresses which the child wore, before the public eye. 
So magnificent was the .small figure, when thus 
arrayed, and such was the splendor of Pearl’s own 
proper beauty, shining through the gorgeous rol)es 
which might have extinguished a paler loveliness. 


that there was an absolute circle of radiance around 
her, on the darksome cottage floor. And yet a rus¬ 
set gown, torn and soiled with the child’s rude play, 
made a picture of her just as perfect. Pearl’s as¬ 
pect was imbued with a spell of infinite variety ; in 
this one child there were many children, comprehend¬ 
ing the full scope between the wild-flower prettiness 
of a peasant-baby, and the pomp, in little, of an in¬ 
fant princess. Throughout all, however, there was a 
trait of passion, a certain depth of hue, which she 
never lost; and if, in any of her changes she had 
grown fainter or paler, she would have ceased to be 
herself,—it would have been no longer Pearl! 

One peculiarity of the child’s deportment remains 
yet to be told. The very first thing which she had 
noticed, in her life, was—what ?—not the mother’s 
smile, responding to it, as other babies do, by that 
faint embryo smile of the little mouth, remembered 
so doubtfully afterwards, and with such fond discus¬ 
sion whether it were indeed a smile. By no means! 
But that first object of which Pearl seemed to become 
aware was—shall we say it ?—the scarlet letter on 
Hester’s bosom ! One day, as the mother stooped 
over the cradle, the infant’s eyes had been caught by 
the glimmering of the gold embroidery about the 
letter ; and, putting up her little hand, she grasped 
at it, smiling, not doubtfully, but with a decided 
gleam, that gave her face the look of a much older 
child. Then, gasping for breath, did Hester Prynne 
clutch the fatal token, instinctively endeavoring to 
tear it away; so infinite was the torture inflicted by 
the intelligent touch of Pearl’s baby-hand. Again, 
i as if her mother's agonized gesture were meant only 
to make sport of her, did little Pearl look into her 
eyes, and smile ! From that epoch, except when the 
child was asleep, Hester had never felt a moment’s 
safety; not a moment’s calm enjoyment of her. 
Weeks, it is true, would sometimes elapse, during 
which Pearl’s gaze might never once be fixed upon 
the .scarlet letter; but then, again, it would come at 
I unawares, like the stroke of sudden death, and always 
! with that peculiar smile and odd expression of the 
j eyes. 












EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 

“ THE ROBIXSOX CRUSOE OF AMERICA.” 

WARD EVERETT HALE is to-day one of the best known and 
most beloved of American authors. He is also a lecturer of note. 
He has jirobably addressed as many audiences as any man in America. 
His work as a preacbei-, as a historian and as a story-teller, entitles 
him to fame; but his life has also been largely devoted to the forma¬ 
tion of organizations to better the moral, social and educational 
conditions of the young people of his own and other lands. Recently he has been 
deeply interested in the great Chatau(|ua movement, which he has done much to 
develop. 

His name is a household word in American homes, and the keynote of his useful 
life may be expressed by the motto of one of his most popular books, “Ten Times 
One is Ten:”—“Look up and not down ! Look forward and not backward ! Look 
out and not in! Lend a hand ! ” 

Edward Everett Hale was born in Boston, Massachusetts, April 3, 1822. He 
graduated at Harvard University in 1839, at the age of seventeen years. He took 
a post graduate course for two years in a Latin school and read theology and church 
history. It was in 1842 that he was licensed to preach by the Boston Association 
of Congregational INIinisters. During the winter of 1844-45 he served a church in 
AVashington, but removed the next year to Worcester, Massachusetts, where he 
remained for ten years. In 1856 he was called to the South Congregational 
(Unitarian) Church in Boston, which he has served for more than three decades. 

When a boy young Hale learned to set type in his father’s printing office, and 
afterwards served on the “ Daily Advertiser,” it is said, in every capacity from 
re|)orter up to editor-in-chief. Before he was twenty-one years old he wrote a large 
part of the “Monthly Chronicle ” and “Boston Miscellany,” and from that time to 
( the present has done an immense amount of newspaper and magazine work. He 
1 at one time edited the “Christian Examiner” and also the “Sunday School Gazette.” 
He founded a magazine entitled “The Old and the New” in 1869, which was after¬ 
wards merged into “Scribner’s Monthly.” In 1866 he began the ])uhlication of 
“Lend a Hand, a Record of Progress and Journal of Organized Charity.” 

As a writer of short stories, no man of modern times, perhaps, is his superior, if 
indeed he has any equals. “My Double and How He Undid Me,” published in 
1859, was the first of his works to strike strongly the ]io]nilar fancy; but it was 
“The Man AYithout a Country,” issued iu 1863, which entitled its author to a prom- 
















386 


EDWARD EVEREIT HALE. 


ineiit place among the classic short storv-tellers of America, and produced a deep 
impression on the public mind. His “(Skeleton in a Closet” followed in 1866; and, 
since that time his prolilic pen has sent forth in the form of books and magazine 
articles, a continuous stream of the most entertaining literature in our language. 
He has the faculty of I)e Foe in giving to his stories the appearance of reality, and 
thus has gained for himself the title of “The Robinson Crusoe of America.” 

Mr. Hale is also an historical writer and a student of great attainment, and has 
contributed many j^apers of rare value to the historical and antiquarian societies of 
both Europe and America. He is, perhaps, the greatest of all living authorities 
on Spanish-American affairs. He is the editor of “Original Hocuments from the 
State Paper Ottice, London, and the British Museum; illustrating the History of 
Sir AValter Raleigh’s First American Colony at Jamestown,” and other historical 
works. 

Throughout his life, Mr. Hale has always taken a patriotic interest in public 
affairs for the general good of the nation. AVhile he dearly loves his native New 
England hills, his ])atriotism is bounded l)y no narrow limits; it is as wide as his 
country. His voice is always the foremost among those raised in praise or in defence 
of our national institutions and our liberties. His influence has always been exerted 
to make men and women better citizens and better Americans. 


LOST.* 


FROM “PHILIP NOLAn’s FRIENDS.”' 


UT as she ran, the path confused her. 
Could she liave jtassed that flaming sassa¬ 
fras without so much as noticing it ? Any 
way she should recognize the great mass of bays 
where she had last noticed the panther’s tracks. 8he 
had seen them as she ran on, and as she came uji. 
She hurried on ; but she certainly had returned 
much farther than she went, when she came out 
on a strange log flung up in some freshet, which 
she knew she had not seen before. And there was 
no clump of bays. Was this being lost ? Was she 
lost? Why, Inez had to confess to herself that she 
was lost just a little bit, but nothing to be afraid of; 
but still lost enough to talk about afterwards she cer¬ 
tainly was. 

Yet, as she said to herself again and again, .she 
could not be a quarter of a mile, nor half a quarter 
of a mile from camp. As .soon as they mi.s.sed 
her—and hy this time they had missed her— 
they would be out to look for her. How provoking 
that she, of all the party, should make .so much 
bother to the re.st! They would watch her now 
like so many cats all the rest of the way. What 


a fool she was ever to leave the knoll! So InPz 
stopped again, shouted again, and listened and 
listened, to hear nothing but a swamp-owl. 

If the sky had been clear, she would have had no 
cause for anxiety. In that case they would have 
light enough to find her in. She would have had the 
sunset glow to steer by; and she would have had no 
difficulty in finding them. But with this horrid gray 
over everything she dared not turn round, without 
fearing that she might lose the direction in which 
the theory of the moment told her she ought to be 
faring. And these openings which she had called 
trails—which were ])robably broken by wild horses 
and wild oxen as they came down to the bayou to 
drink—would not go in one direction for ten paces. 
They bent right and left, this way and that; so that 
without some sure token of sun or star, it was impos¬ 
sible, as Inez felt, to know wbich way she was 
walking. 

And at last this perplexity increased. She was 
conscious that the sun must have .set, and that the 
twilight, never long, was now fairly upon her. All 
the time there was this fearful silence, only broken 



* Copyriglit, Roberts Bros. 









EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 


387 


by her own voice and that hateful owl. Was she 
wise to keep on in her theories of this way or that 
way ? She had never yet come back, either upon 
the fallen cottonwood tree, or upon the bunch of bays 
which was her landmark ; and it was doubtless her 
wisest determination to stay where she was. The 
chances that the larger party would find her were 
much greater than that she alone would find them ; 
but by this time she was sure that, if she kept on in 
any direction, there was an even chance that she was 
going farther and farther wrong. 

But it was too cold for her to sit down, wrap her¬ 
self never so closely in her shawl. The poor girl 
tried this. She must keep in motion. Back and 
forth she walked, fixing her march by signs which 
she could not mistake even in the gathering darkness. 
How fast that darkne.ss gathered ! The wind seemed 
to rise, too, as the night came on, and a fine rain, 
that seemed as cold as snow to her, came to give the 
last drop to her wretchedness. If she were tempted 
for a moment to abandon her sentry-beat, and try 
this wild experiment or that, to the right or left, 
some odious fallen trunk, wet with mo.ss and decay, 
lay just where she pressed into the shrubbery, as if 
filaced there to reveal to her her absolute powerless¬ 
ness. She was dead with cold, and even in all her 
wretchedness knew that she was hungry. How 
stujiid to be hungry when she had so much else to 


trouble her ! But at least she would make a system 
of her march.- She would walk fifty times this way, 
to the stump, and fifty times that way ; then she 
would stop and cry out and sound her w’ar-whoop; 
then she would take up her sentry-march again. 
And so she did. This way, at least, time would not 
pass without her knowing whether it was midnight 
or no. 

‘‘ Hark ! God be praised, there is a gun ! and there 
is another ! and there is another ! 'f hey have come 
on the right track, and I am safe !” So she shouted 
again, and sounded her war-whoop again, and list¬ 
ened,—and then again, and listened again. One 
more gun! but then no more! Poor Inez! Cer¬ 
tainly they were all on one side of her. If only it 
was not so piteously dark ! If she could only walk 
half the distance in that direction w’hich her fifty 
sentry-beats made put together! But when she 
struggled that way through the tangle, and over one 
wet log and another, it was only to find her poor wet 
feet sinking down into mud and water ! She did not 
dare keep on. All that was left for her was to find 
her tramping-ground again, and this she did. 

“ Good God, take care of me! ^ly poor dear 
father—what would he say if he knew his child was 
dying close to her friends ? Dear mamma, keep 
watch over your little girl!”— 









4& 

f 


AVM. DEAN EIOWELLS. 

(the realistic novelist of AMERICA.) 


HE West lias contributed many notable men to our nation within the 
last half of the present century. There seems to be something in 
the spirit of that develo])ing section to stimulate the aspirations and 
ambitions of those who grow up in its atmosphere. Progress, Enter¬ 
prise, “Excelsior” are the three words written upon its banner as the 
motto for the sons of the middle AVest. It is there we go for many 
of our leading statesmen. Thence we draw our presidents more largely than from 
any other section, and the w^orld of modern literature is also seeking and finding 
its chiefest leaders among the sons and daughters of that region. True they are 
generally transplanted to the Eastern centres of publication and commercial life, 
but they were born and grew up in the AVest. 

Notably among the examples which might be cited, we mention AVilliam Dean 
Howells, one of the greatest of modern American novelists, who was born at Alartin’s 
Ferry, Ohio, Alarcli 1st, 1837. Air. Howells did not enjoy the advantage of a col¬ 
legiate education. At twelve years of age he began to set type in his father’s print¬ 
ing office, which he followed until he leached manhood, employing his odd time in 
writing articles and verses for the newspapers, and while quite young did editorial 
work for a leading daily in Cincinnati. At the age of twenty-one, in 1858, he 
became the editor of the “Ohio State Journal” at Columbus. Two years later he 
published in connection with John James Piatt a small volume of verse entitled 
“Poems of two Friends.” These youtbful effusions were marked by that crystal 
like clearness of thought, grace and artistic elegance of exjn-ession wdiich charac¬ 
terize his later writings. Mr. Howells came prominently before the public in 18G0 
by publishing a carefully written and most excellent “Life of Abraham Lincoln” 
which was extensively sold and read during that most exciting presidential cam})aign, 
and no doubt contributed much to the success of the candidate. Air. Lincoln, in 
furnishing data for this work, became well acquainted with the young author of 
twenty-three and was so impressed with his ability in grasping and discussing state 
affairs, and good sense generally, that he appointed him as consul to Venice. 

During four years’ residence in that city Air. Howells, in addition to his official 
duties, learned the Italian language and studied its literature. He also here gath¬ 
ered the material for two books, “Venitian Life” and “Italian Journeys.” He 
arranged for the publication of the former in London as he passed through that citv 
in 1865 on his way home. The latter was brought out in America on his return, 

3 S 8 






















WM. DEAN HOWELLS. 


389 


appearing in 1867. Neither of these works are novels. ‘‘Venetian Life’’ is a 
delightful description of the manners and customs of real life in Venice. “Italian 
Journeys” is a charming portrayal—almost a kinetoscopic view—of his journey 
from Venice to Rome by the roundabout way of Genoa and Naples, with a visit to 
Pompeii and Herculaneum, including artistic etchings of notable scenes. 

The first attempt of Mr. Howells at story-telling, “Their Wedding Journey,” ap¬ 
peared in 1871. This, while ranking as a novel, was really a description of an actual 
bridal tour across New York. “A Chance Acquaintance” (1873) was a more com¬ 
plete novel, but evidently it was a venture of the imagination upon ground that had 
proven fruitful in real life. It was modeled after “The Wedding Journey,” but 
described a holiday season spent in journeying up the 8t. Lawrence River, stopping 
at Quebec and Saguenay. 

Since 1874 Mr. Howells has published one or more novels annually, among which 
are the following: “A Foregone Conclusion” (1874), “A Counterfeit Presentment” 
(1877), “The Lady of the Aroostook” (1878), “The Undiscovered Country” (1880), 
“A Fearful Responsibility” (1882), “A Modern Instance” and “Dr. Breen’s Prac¬ 
tice” (1883), “A Woman’s Reason” (1884), “Tuscan Cities” and “The Rise of 
Silas Lapham” (1885), “The Minister’s Charge” and “Indian Summer” (1886), 
“April Hopes” (1887), “Annie Kilburn” (1888), “ Hazard of New Fortune” (1889). 
Since 1890 Mr. Howells has continued his literary activity with increased, rather 
than abating, energy. Among his noted later novels are “ A Traveler from Altruria” 
and “The Landlord at Lion’s Head” (the latter issued in 1897). Other notable 
books of his are “Stops at Various Quills,” “My Literary Passion,” “Library of 
Universal Adventure,” “Modern Italian Poets,” “Christmas Every Day” and “A 
Boy’s Town,” the two last mentioned being for juvenile readers, with illustrations. 

Mr. Howells’ accurate attention to details gives to his stories a most realistic flavor, 
making his books seem rather photographic than artistic. He shuns imposing char¬ 
acters and thrilling incidents, and makes much of interesting people and ordinary 
events in our social life. A broad grasp of our national characteristics and an inti¬ 
mate acquaintance with our institutions gives him a facility in producing minute 
studies of certain aspects of society and types of character, which no other writer 
in America has approached. For instance, his “Undiscovered Country” was an 
exhaustive study and presentation of spiritualism, as it is witnessed and taught in 
New England. And those who admire Mr. Howells’ writings will find in “The 
Landlonl at Lion’s Head” a clear-cut statement of the important sociological prob¬ 
lem yet to be solved, upon the other; which problem is also characteristic of other 
of his books. Thoughtful readers of j\Ir. Howells’ novels gain much information on 
vital questions of society and government, which broaden the mind and cannot fail 
to be of permanent benefit. 

From 1872 to 1881 Mr. Howells was editor of the “ Atlantic Monthly,” and since 
1886 he has conducted the department known as the “Editor’s Study” in “Harper’s 
Magazine,” contributing much to other periodicals at the same time. He is also well 
known as a poet, but has so overshadowed this side of himself by his greater power 
as a novelist, that he is placed with that class of writers. In 1873 a collection of 
his poems was published. While in Venice he wrote “No Love Lost; a Romance 
of Travel,” which was published in 1869, and stamped him as a poet of ability. 


390 


WM, DEAN HOWELLS. 


IMPRESSIONS ON VISITING POMPEII* 

FROM “ ITALIAN JOURNEYS.” 18G7. 


HE cotton whitens over two-thirds of Pom¬ 
peii yet interred : happy the generation 
that lives to learn the wondrous secrets of 
that sepulchre! For, when you have once been at 
Pompeii, this phantasm of the past takes deeper hold 
on your imagination than any living city, and becomes 
and is the metropolis of your dream-land forever. 
() marvellous city! who shall reveal the cunning of 
your spell ? Something not death, something not 
life,—something that is the one when you turn to 
determine its essence as the other ! What is it comes 
to me at this distance of that which I saw in Pom¬ 
peii ? The narrow and curving, but not crooked 
streets, with the blazing sun of that Neapolitan 
November falling into them, or clouding their wheel- 
worn lava with the black, black shadows of the 
many-tinted walls ; the houses, and the gay columns 
of white, yellow, and red ; the delicate pavements of 
mosaic; the skeletons of dusty cisterns and dead 
fountains; inanimate garden-spaces with pygmy 
statues suited to their littleness ; suites of fairy bed¬ 
chambers, painted with exrpiisite fre.scos; dining- 
halls with joyous scenes of hunt and baiirpiet on 
their walls; the ruinous sites of temples; the melan¬ 
choly emptiness of booths and shops and joll}’ drink¬ 
ing-houses; the lonesome tragic theatre, with a mod¬ 
ern Pompeian drawing water from a well there; the 
baths with their roofs perfect yet, and the stucco 
bas.s-reliefs all but unharmed ; around the whole, the ■ 
city wall crowned with slender poplars; outside the 
gates, the long avenue of tombs, and the Appian 
Way stretching on to Stabiae; and, in the distance, 
Vesuvius, brown and bare, with his fiery breath 
scarce visible against the cloudless heaven ; these are 
the things that float before^ my fancy as I turn back 
to look at myself walking tho.se enchanted streets, 
and to wonder if I could ever have been so blest. 
For there is nothing on the earth, or under it, like 
Pompeii. . . . 

THE HOUSES OF POMPEII AND THEIR PAINTED 


alike; the entrance-room next the door ; the parlor 
or drawing room next that; then the impluvium, or 
unroofed space in the middle of the house, where the 
rains were caught and drained into the cistern, and 
where the household used to come to wash itself, 
primitively, as at a pump; the httle garden, with its 
painted columns, behind the impluvium, and, at last, 
the dining-room. 

After referring to the frescos on the walls that 
have remained for nearly two thousand years and the 
wonder of the art by which they were produced, 
Mr. Howells thus continues: 

Of course the houses of the rich were adorned by 
men of talent; but it is surjirising to see the com¬ 
munity of thought and feeling in all this work, 
whether it be from cunninger or clumsier hands. The 
subjects are nearly always chosen from the fables of 
the gods, and they are in illustration of the poets, 
Homer and the rest. To suit that soft, luxurious 
life which people led in Pompeii, the themes are 
commonly amorous, and sometimes not too chaste: 
there is much of Bacchus and Ariadne, much of 
A'enus and Adonis, and Diana bathes a good deal 
with her nymphs,—not to mention frequent represen¬ 
tations of the toilet of that beautiful mon.ster which 
the lascivious art of the time loved to depict. One 
of the most [leasing of all the scenes is that in one 
of the houses, of the Judgment of Paris, in which 
the shepherd sits upon a bank in an attitude of 
ineffable and flattered importance, with one leg care¬ 
lessly crossing the other, and both hands resting 
lightly on his shepherd’s crook, while the goddesses 
before him await his sentence. Naturally, the 
painter has done his best for the victress in this 
rivalry, and you see 

“ Idalian Aphrodite beautiful,” 

as she should be, but with a warm and pi(|uant spice of 
girlish resentment in her attitude, that Paris should 
pause for an instant, which is altogether delicious. 

“And I beheld great Here’s angry eyes.” 


VVALL.S. 

/Voni “ Ifdlittn Journeys." 

The plans of nearly all the homses in the city are 

* Copyright, Houghton. Mifflin Jt Co. 













WM. DEAN HOWELLS. 


391 


Awful eyes! How did the painter make them? 
The wonder of all these pagan frescos is the mystery 
of the eyes,—still, beautiful, unhuman. You can¬ 
not believe that it is wrong for those tranquil-eyed 
men and women to do evil, they look so calm and so 
unconscious in it all; and in the presence of the 
celestials, as they bend upon you those eternal orbs, 
in whose regard you are but a part of space, you feel 
that here art has achieved the unearthly. I know of 


no words in literature which give a sense (nothing 
gives the idea) of the stare of these gods, except 
that magnificent line of Kingsley’s, describing the 
advance over the sea toward Andromeda of the 
oblivious and unsympathizing Nereids. They floated 
slowly up and their eyes 

“Stared on her, silent and still, like the eyes in the 
house of the idols.” 


VENETIAN VAGABONDS.* 

(prom “VENETIAN LIFE.” 1867.) 


a HE lasagnone is a loafer, as an Italian can 
be a loafer, without the admixture of 
ruffianism, which blemishes lost loafers of 
northern race. He may be quite worthless, and even 
impertinent, but he cannot be a rowdy—that pleasing 
blossom on the nose of our hist, high-fed, thick- 
blooded civilization. In Venice he must not be 
confounded with other loiterers at the cafe; not 
with the natty people who talk politics interminably 
over little cups of black coffee; not with those old 
habitues, who sit forever under the Procuratie, their 
hands folded upon the top of their sticks, and stare 
at the ladies who pass with a curious steadfastness 
and knowing skepticism of gaze, not pleasing in the 
dim eyes of age; certainly, the last persons who bear 
any likeness to the lasagnone are the Germans, with 
their honest, heavy faces comically anglicized by leg- 
of-mutton whiskers. The truth is, the lasagnone 
does not flourish in the best cafe ; he comes to per¬ 
fection in cheaper resorts, for he is commonly not 
rich. 

It often happens that a glass of water, flavored with 
a little ani.sette, is the order over which he sits a 
whole evening. He knows the waiter intimately, and 
does not call him “ Shop ! ” (Bottega) as less familiar 
people do, but Gigi, or Beppi, as the waiter is pretty 
sure to be named. “Behold!” he says, when the 
servant places his modest drink before him, “ who is 
that loveliest blonde there?” Or to his fellow-lasag- 
none : “ She regards me ! I have broken her heart! ” 
This is his sole business and niksion, the cruel lasag¬ 


none—to break the ladies’ hearts. He spares no 
condition—neither rank nor wealth is any defence 
against him. I often wonder what is in that note he 
continually shows to his friend. The confession of 
some broken heart, I think. When he has folded 
it and put it away, he chuckles, “ Ah, cara! ” and 
sucks at his long, slender Virginia cigar. It is 
unlighted, for fire consumes cigars. I never see 
him read the papers—neitlier the Italian papers nor 
the Parisian journals, though if he can get “ Galig- 
nani ” he is glad, and he likes to pretend to a knowl¬ 
edge of English, uttering upon the occasion, with 
great relish, such distinctively English words as 
“ Yes” and “ Not,” and to the waiter, “ A-little-fire- 
if-you-please.” He sits very late in the cafe, he 
touches his bat—his curly French hat—to the com¬ 
pany as he goes out with a mild swagger, his cane 
held lightly in his left hand, his coat cut snugly to 
show his hips, and genteely swaying with the motion 
of his body. He is a dandy, of course—all Italians 
are dandies—but his vanity is perfectly harmless, and 
his heart is not bad. He would go half an hour 
to put you in the direction of the Piazza. A little 
thing can make him happy—to .stand in the ])it at 
the opera, and gaze at the ladies in the lower boxes 
—to attend the Marionette or the Malibran Theatre, 
and imperil the peace of pretty seamstresses and con- 
tadiuas—to stand at the church doors and ogle the 
fair saints as they pass out. Go, harmless lasagnone, 
to thy lodging in some mysterious height, and break 
hearts if thou wilt. They are quickly mended. 


By special permission of the author and of Houghton, Mifflin i Co. 












GENERAL LEWIS AVALLACE. 

AUTHOR OF “ben HUR.” 

IHERE is an old adage which declares “without fame or fortune at 
i forty, without fame or fortune always.” This, however is not invar¬ 
iably true. Hawthorne became famous when he wrote “Scarlet 
Letter” at forty-six, Sir AValter Scott })roduced the first AVaverly 
I Novel after he was forty; and we find another exception in the case 

of the soldier author who is made the subject of this sketch. Per¬ 

haps no writer of modern times has gained so wide a reputation on so few books 
or began his literary career so late in life as the author of “The Fair God;” “Ben 
Hur” and “The Prince of India.” It w^as not until the year 1873 that General 
Lewis Wallace at the age of forty-six became known to literature. Prior to this he 
had filled the double jDOsition of lawyer and soldier, and it w^as his observations and 
experiences in the Mexican AVar, no doubt, which inspired him to write “The Fair 
God,” his first book, which was a story of the conquest of that country. 

Lew. AA^allace was born at Brookville, Indiana, in 1827. After receiving a com¬ 
mon school education, he began the study of law; but on the breaking out of the 
Mexican AVar, he volunteered in the army as a lieutenant in an Indiana company. 

On his return from the war, in 1848, he took up the practice of his profession in 

his native state and also served in the legislature. Near the beginning of the Civil 
War he became colonel of a volunteer regiment. His military service was of such 
a character that he received special mention, fi-om General Grant for meritorious 
conduct and was made major-general in Alarch, 18G2. He was mustered out of 
service when the war closed in 1865 and resumed his practice of law at his old 
home in Crawfordsville. In 1873, as stated above, his first book, “The Fair God,” 
was jmblished; but it met with only moderate success. In 1878, General AYallace 
was made Territorial Governor of Utah and in 1880, “Ben Hur; a Tale of The 
Christ” appeared. The scene was laid in the East and displayed such a knowledge 
of the manners and customs of that country and people that General Garfield—that 
year elected President—considered its author a fitting person for the Turkish 
Ministry, and accordingly, in 1881, he was appointed to that position. It is said 
that when President Garfield gave General AVallace liis appointment, he wrote the 
words “Ben Hur” across the corner of the document, and, as AA^allace was coming 
away from his visit of acknowledgement at the AVhite House, the President put his 
arm over his friend’s shoulder and said, “I expect another book out of you. Your 
duties will not be too onerous to allow you to write it. Locate the scene in 

392 

























GENERAL LEWIS WALLACE. 


393 


Constantinople.” This suggestion was, no doubt, General Wallace’s reason for 
writing “ The Prince of India,” which was published in 1890 and is the last 
book issued by its author. He had in the mean time, however, published “ The 
Boyhood of Christ” (1888). 

None of the other books of the author have been so popular or reached the great 
success attained by “ Ben Hur,” which has had the enormous sale of nearly one-half 
million copies without at any time being forced upon the market in the form of a 
clieap edition. It is remarkable also to state that the early circulation of “ Ben 
Hur,” while it was appreciated by a certain class, was too small to warrant the 
author in anticipating the fortune which he afterwards harvested from this book. 
Before General Wallace was made Minister to Turkey, the book-sellers bought it in 
quantities of two, three or a dozen at a time, and it was not until President Garfield 
had honored the author with this significent portfolio that the trade commenced to 
call for it in thousand lots. 


DESCRIPTION OF CHRIST* 
(from “ BEX HUR.” 1880 .) 


HE head was open to the cloudless light, ex¬ 
cept as it was draped with long hair and 
slightly waved, and parted in the middle, 
and auburn in tint, with a tendency to reddish golden 
where most strongly touched by the sun. Under a 
broad, low forehead, under black well-arched brows, 
beamed eyes dark blue and large, and softened to ex¬ 
ceeding tenderness by lashes of great length some¬ 
times seen on children, but seldom, if ever, on men. 
As to the other features, it would have been difficult 
to decide whether they were Greek or Jewish. The 
delicacy of the nostrils and mouth was unusually to 
the latter type, and when it was taken into account 
with the gentlene.ss of the eyes, the pallor of the 
complexion, the fine texture of the hair and the soft¬ 
ness of the beard, which fell in waves over His throat 
to His breast, never a soldier but would have laughed 
at Him in encounter, never a woman who would not 
have confided in Him at sight, never a child that 


would not, with quick instinct, have given Him its 
hand and whole artless trust, nor might any one have 
said He was not beautiful. 

The features, it should be further said, were ruled 
by a certain expression which, as the viewer chose, 
might with equal correctness have been called the 
effect of intelligence, love, pity or sorrow, though, in 
better speech, it was a blending of them all—a look 
easy to fancy as a mark of a sinless soul doomed to 
the sight and understanding of the utter sinfulness 
of thdse among whom it was passing; yet withal no 
one could have observed the face with a thought 
of weakness in the man; so, at least, would not 
they who know that the qualities mentioned—love, 
sorrow, pity—are the results of a consciousness of 
strength to bear suffering oftener than strength to do; 
such has been the might of martyrs and devotees 
and the myriads written down in saintly calendars; 
and .such, indeed, was the air of this one. 



THE PRINCE OF INDIA TEACHES REINCARNATION.* 
(from the “ PRINCE OF INDIA.” 1890 .) 



HE Holy Father of Light and Life,” the 
speaker went on, after a pause referable 
to his consummate knowledge of men. 


“ has sent His Spirit down to the world, not once, 
merely, or unto one people, but repeatedly, in ages 

* Selections printed here are by special permission of the author. Harper Brothers, Publishers. 


sometimes near together, sometimes wide apart, and 
to races diverse, yet in every instance remarkable for 
genius.” 

There was a murmur at this, but he gave it no 
time. 








394 


GENERAL LEWIS WALLACE. 


“ Ask you now how I could identify the Spirit! 
so as to be able to declare to you solemnly, as I 
do in fear of God, that in several repeated appear¬ 
ances of which I speak it was the very same j 
Sfiirit ? How do you know the man you met at set ^ 
of sun yesterday was the man you saluted and had 
salute from this morning ? Well, 1 tell you the 
Father has given the Spirit features by which it 
may be known—features distinct as those of the 
neighbors nearest you there at your right and left 
hands. Wherever in my reading Holy Books, like j 
these, I hear of a man, himself a shining examjile 
of righteousne.ss, teaching God and the way to 
God ; by tlntse signs I say to my soul: ‘ Oh, the 
Spirit, the Spirit! Blessed in the man appointed to 
carry it about!’ ” 

Again the murmur, but again he passed on. 

“The Spirit dwelt in the Holy of Holies set apart 
for it in the Tabernacle; yet no man ever saw it 


here, a thing of sight. The soul is not to be seen ; 
still less is the Spirit of the Most High; or if one 
did see it, its brightness would kill him. In great 
mercy, therefore, it has come and done its good 
works in the world veiled ; now in one form, now in 
another; at one time, a voice in the air; at another, 
a vision in sleep; at another, a burning bush ; at 



“Bethabara!” shouted a cowled brother, tossing 
both hands up. 

“ Be quiet! ” the Patriarch ordered. 

“ Thus always when its errand was of quick de¬ 
spatch,” the Prince continued. “ But if its coming 
were for residence on earth, then its habit has been 
to adopt a man for its outward form, and enter into 
him, and speak by him; such was Moses, such 
Elijah, such were all the Prophets, and such ”—he 
paused, then exclaimed shrilly—“such was Jesus 
Christ! ” 


DEATH OF MONTEZUMA.* 


(from “ THE 

HE king turned his pale face and fixed his 
gazijig eyes upon the conqueror; and such 
1 power was there in the look that the latter 
added, with softening manner, “What I can do for 
thee I will do. 1 have always been thy true friend.” 

“ O Malinche, 1 hear you, and your words make 
dying easy,” answered M(tntezuma, smiling faintly. 

With an effort he sought Cortes’ hand, and looking 
at Acatlan and Tecalco, continued : 

“ Let me intrust the.se women and their children 
to you and your lord. Of all that which was mine 
but now is youivs—lands, people, empire—enongh 
to .save them from want and shame, were small in¬ 
deed. Promise me; in the hearing of all these, 
promise, Malinche.” 

'I’aint of anger was there no longer on the soul of 
the great ^'paniard. 

“Best thee, good king!” he said, with feeling, 
‘‘ Thy queens and their children shall be my wards. 
In the hearing of all these, I so swear.” 


FAIR GOD.”) 

The listener smiled again ; his eyes closed, his 
hand fell down ; and so still was he that they began 
to think him dead. Suddenly he stirred, and said 
faintly, but distinctly,— 

“ Nearer, uncles, nearer.” The old men bent over 
him, listening. 

“ A mes.sage to Guatamozin,—to whom T give my 
last thought, as king. Say to him, that this linger¬ 
ing in death is no fault of his; the aim was true, but 
the arrow sjdintered upon leaving the bow. And 
lest the world hold him to account for my blood, hear 
me say, all of you, that T bade him do what 
he did. And in sign that I love him, take my 
sceptre, and give it to him—” 

His voice fell away, yet the lips moved ; lower the 
accents stooped,— 

“Tula and the empire go with the sceptre,” he 
murmured, and they were his last words,—his will. 
A wail from the women pronounced him dead. 



Copyright, Harper & Bros. 







EDWAKD EGGLESTON. ’ 
“the hoosier school-boy.” 


ERDER says witli truth that “one’s wliole life is but the interpreta¬ 
tion of the oracles of his childhood,” and those who are familiar with 
the writings of Edward Eggleston see in his pictures of country life 
in the Hoosier State the interpretation and illustration of his own 
life with its peculiar environment in “ the great interior valley ” 
nearly a half-century ago. The writers who have interpreted for us 
and for future generations the life and the characteristic manners which prevailed in 
the days when our country was new and the forests were yielding to give place to 
growing cities and expanding farms have done a rare and peculiar service, and those 
sections which have found expression through the genius and gifts of novelist or 
poet are highly favored above all others. 

Etlward Eggleston has always counted it a piece of good-fortune to have been 
born in a small village of Southern Indiana, for he believes that the formative influ¬ 
ences of such an environment, the intimate knowledge of simple human nature, the 
close acquaintance with nature in woods and field and stream, and the sincere and 
earnest tone of the religious atmosphere which he breathed all through his youth, are 
better elements of culture than a city life could have furnished. 

He was born in 1837 in Vevay , Indiana, and his early life was spent amid the 
“ noble scenery ” on the banks of the Ohio River. His father died while he was a 
young boy, and he himself was too delicate to spend much time at school, so that he 
is a shining example of those who move up the inclined plane of self-culture and 
self-improvement. 

As he himself has forcefully said, through his whole life two men have 
struggled within him for the ascendency, the religious devotee and the literary man. 
His early training was “ after the straitest sect of his religion ”—the fervid IMetho- 
dism of fifty years ago, and he was almost morbidly scrupulous as a boy, not even 
allowing himself to read a novel, though from this early period he always felt in 
himself a future literary career, and the teacher who corrected his conqiositions 
naively said to him : “ I have marked your com]>osition very severely because you 
are destined to become an author.” 

At first the religious element in his nature decidedly held sway and he devoted 
himself to the ministry, mounting a horse and going forth with his saddle-bags as a 
circuit preacher in a circuit of ten preaching ])laces. This was followed by a still 
harder experience in the border country of Minnesota, where in moccasins he 

395 

















39 ^ 


EDWARD EGGLESTON. 


tramped from town to town preaching to lumbermen and living on a meagre pit¬ 
tance, eating crackers and cheese, often in broken health and expecting an early 
death. 

But even this earnest life of religious devotion and sacrifice was intersjiersed with 
attemjits at literary work and he wrote a critical essay on “ Beranger and his Songs ” 
while he was trying to evangelize the red-shirted lumbermen of St. Ci’oix. It was 
in such life and amid such experiences that Eggleston gained his keen knowledge 
of human nature which Inis been the delight and charm of his books. 

He began his literai-y career as associate editor of the “Little Corporal” at 
Evanston, Illinois, in 1866, and in 1870 he rose to the position of literary editor of 
the New York “Inde})endent,” of which he was for a time superintending editor. 
For five years, from 1874 to 1870, he was pastor of the Church of Christian En¬ 
deavor in Brooklyn, but failing health compelled him to retire, and he made his 
home at “Owl’s Nest,” on Lake George, where he has since devoted himself to 
literary work. 

His novels depict the rural life of Southern Indiana, and his own judgment upon 
them is as follows: “I should say that what distinguishes my novels from other 
works of fiction is the prominence which they give to social conditions; that the 
individual characters are here treated to a greater degree than elsewhere as parts of 
a study of a society, as in some sense the logical result of the environment. AVhat- 
ever may be the rank assigned to these stories as woiks of literary art, they will 
always have a certain value as materials for the student of social history.” 

His chief novels and stories are the following: “Mr, Blake’s Walking Stick” 
(Chicago, 1869); “The Hoosier School-master” (New York, 1871);” “End of the 
World” (1872); “The Mystery of Metropolisville” (1873); “The Circuit Bider” 
(1874); “School-master’s Stories for Boys and Girls” (1874); and “The Hoosier 
School-boy” (1883). He has written in connection with his daughter an interest¬ 
ing series of biograjihical tales of famous American Indians, and during these later 
years of his life he has largely devoted himself to historical work which has had an 
attraction for him all his life. 

In his historical work as in his novels he is especially occupied with the evolu¬ 
tion of society. His interest runs in the line of unfohling the history of life and 
development rather than in giving mere facts of political history. 

His chief works in this department are: “Household History of the United 
States and its People” (New York, 1893); and “The Beginners of a Nation” (New 
York, 1897). 

Though possessed of a weak and ailing body and always on the verge of invalid¬ 
ism, he has done the work of a strong man. He has always preserveil his deep and 
earnest religious and moral tone, but he has woven with it a joyous and genuine 
humor which has warmed the hearts of his many readers. 


EDWARD EGGLESTON. 


397 


SPELLING DOWN THE MASTER* 


(from “the hoosier schoolmaster. 
\’EKY' family furnished a candle. There 
were yellow dips and white dips, burning, 
smoking, and flaring. There was laugh¬ 
ing, and talking, and giggling, and simpering, and 
ogling, and flirting, and citurting. What a dress 
party is to Fifth Avenue, a spelling-school is to 
I loophole County. It is an occasion which is meta¬ 
phorically inscribed with this legend, “ Choose your 
partners.” Spelling is only a blind in Iloophole 
County, as is dancing on Fifth Avenue. But as 
there are some in society who love dancing for its 
own sake, so in Flat Creek district there were those 
who loved spelling for its own sake, and who, smell¬ 
ing the battle from afar, had come to try their skill 
in this tournament, hoping to freshen the laurels they 
had won in their school-days. 

“ I ’low,” said Mr. Means, speaking as the prin¬ 
cipal school trustee, “ I ’low our friend the Square is 
jest the man to boss this ere consarn to-night. Ef 
nobody objects. I’ll appint him. Come, Square, 
don’t be bashful. Walk uj» to the trough, fodder or 
no fodder, as the man said to his donkey.” 

There was a general giggle at this, and many of 
the young swains took occasion to nudge the girls 
along.side them, ostensibly for the purpose of making 
them see the joke, but really for the pure pleasure 
of nudging. 

The squire came to the front. 

“ Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, shoving up his 
spectacles, and .sucking his lips over his white teeth 
to keep them in place, “ladies and gentlemen, young 
men and maidens, raley I’m obleeged to Mr. Means 
fer this honor,” and the Squire took both hands and 
turned the top of his head round several inches. 
Then he adjusted his spectacles. Whether he was 
obliged to Mr. Means for the honor of being com¬ 
pared to a donkey, was not clear. “ I feel in the 
inmo.st compartments of my animal spirits a most 
happvfying sense of the success and futility of all my 
endeavors to sarve the people of Flat Creek deestrick, 
and the people of Tomkins township, in my weak way 
and manner.” This burst of eloquence was delivered 
with a constrained air and an apparent sense of 
danger that he. Squire Hawkins, might fall to pieces 
in his weak way and manner, and of the success and 


” (orange JUDD CO., PUBLISHERS.) 
futility (especially the latter) of all attempts at recon¬ 
struction. For by this time the ghastly pupil of the 
left eye, which was black, was looking away round to 
the left while the little blue one on the right twinkled 
cheerfully toward the front. The front teeth would 
drop down so that the Squire’s mouth was kept nearly 
closed, and his words whistled through. 

“ I feel as if 1 could be grandiloquent on this 
interesting occasion,” twisting his scalp round, “ but 
raley I must forego any such exertions. It is spelling 
you w’ant. Spelling is the corner-stone, the grand, 
underlying subterfuge of a good eddication. I put 
the spellin’-book prepared by the great Daniel Web¬ 
ster alongside the Bible. I do raley. The man who 
got up, who compounded this little work of inextri¬ 
cable valoo was a benufactor to the whole human 
race or any other.” Here the spectacles fell off. 
The Squire replaced them in some confusion, gave 
the top of his head another twist, and felt for his 
glass eye, while poor Shocky stared in wonder, and 
Betsy Short rolled from side to side at the point of 
death from the effort to suppress her giggle. Mrs. 
Means and the other old ladies looked the applause 
they could not speak. 

“ I appint Larkin Lanham and Jeems Buchanan 
fer captings,” said the Squire. And the two young 
men thus named took a stick and tossed it from hand 
to hand to decide who should have the “ first chice.” 
One tossed the stick to the other, who held it fast 
just where he happened to catch it. Then the first 
placed his hand above the second, and .so the hands 
were alternately changed to the top. The one who 
held the stick last without room for the other to take 
hold had gained the lot. This was tried three times. 
As Larkin held the stick twice out of three times, he 
had the choice. He hesitated a moment. Every¬ 
body looked toward tall Jim Phillips. But Larkin 
was fond of a venture on unknown seas, and so he 
•said, “ I take the master,” while a buzz of surprise 
ran round the room, and the captain of the other 
side, as if afraid his opponent would withdraw the 
choice, retorted quickly, and with a little smack of 
exultation and defiance in his voice: “ And / take 
Jeems Phillips.” 

And soon all present, except a few of the old folks, 


*■ Copyright, Orange Judd Co. 







398 


EDWARD EGGLESTON. 


found themselves ranged in opposing hosts, the poor 
spellers lagging in, with what grace they could at the 
foot of the two divisions. The Squire opened his 
spelling-book and began to give out the words to the 
two captains, who stood up and spelled against each 
other. It was not long before Larkin spelled “ really ” 
with one /, and had to sit down in confusion, while a 
murmur of satisfaction ran through the ranks of the 
opposing forces. His own side bit their lips. The 
slender figure of the young teacher took the place 
of the htllen leader, and the excitement made the 
house very quiet. Ralph dreaded the loss of influ¬ 
ence he would suffer if he should be easily spelled 
down. And at the moment of rising he saw in the 
darkest corner the figure of a well-dressed young man 
sitting in the shadow. It made him tremble. Why 
should his evil genius haunt him ? But by a strong 
effort he turned his attention away from Hr. Small, 
and listened carefully to the words which the Squire 
did not pronounce very distinctly, spelling them with 
extreme deliberation. This gave him an air of hesi¬ 
tation which disappointed those on his own side. 
They wanted him to .spell with a dashing assurance. 
But he did not begin a word until he had mentally 
felt his way through it. After ten minutes of spell¬ 
ing hard words, Jeems Buchanan, the captain of the 
other side, spelled “atrocious” with an s instead of a 
c, and subsided, his first choice, Jeems Phillips, com¬ 
ing up against the teacher. This brought the excite¬ 
ment to fever-heat. For though Ralph was chosen 
first, it was entirely on trust, and mo.st of the com¬ 
pany were disappointed. The champion who now 
stood up against the school-master was a famous 
speller. 

Jim Phillips was a tall, lank, stoop-shouldered fellow, 
who had never distinguished himself in any other 
pursuit than spelling. Except in this one art of 
spelling he was of no account. He could neither 
catch a ball well nor bat well. He could not throw 
well enough to make his mark in that famous West¬ 
ern game of Bull-pen. He did not succeed well in 
any study but that of AVebster’s Elementary. But 
in that—to use the usual Flat Creek locution—he 
was “a boss.” The genius for .spelling is in .some 
people a sixth sense, a matter of intuition. Some 
spellers are born and not made, and their facility 
reminds one of the mathematical prodigies that crop 


out every now and then to bewilder the world. Bud 
Means, foreseeing that Ralph would be pitted against 
Jim Phillips, had warned his friend that Jim could 
spell “ like thunder and lightning,” and that it “ took 
a powerful smart speller” to beat him, for he knew 
“ a heap of spelling-book.” To have “ spelled down 
the master ” is next thing to having whipped the 
biggest bully in Hoophole County, and Jim had 
“ spelled down ” the last three masters. He divided 
the hero-worship of the district with Bud Cleans. 

For half an hour the Squire gave out hard words. 
What a blessed thing our crooked orthograjihy is. 
Without it there could be no spelling-schools. As 
Ralph discovered his opponent’s mettle he became 
more and more cautious. He was now .satisfied that 
Jim would eventually beat him. The fellow evidently 
knew more about the spelling-book than old Noah 
Webster himself. As he .stood there, with his dull 
face and long sharp nose, his hands behind his back, 
and his voice spelling infallibly, it seemed to Hart- 
sook that his superiority must lie in his nose. Ralj)h’.s 
cautiousness answered a double purpose; it enabled 
him to tread surely, and it was mistaken by Jim for 
weakness. Phillips was now confident that he should 
carry off the scalp of the fourth school-master before 
the evening was over. He spelled eagerly, confidently, 
brilliantly. Stoop-shouldered as he was, he began to 
straighten up. In the minds of all the company the 
odds were in his favor. He saw this, and became 
ambitious to distinguish himself by spelling without 
giving the matter any thought. 

Ralph always believed that he would have been 
speedily defeated by Phillips had it not been for two 
thoughts which braced him. The sinister shadow of 
young Dr. Small .sitting in the dark corner by the 
water-bucket nerved him. A victory over Phillips 
was a defeat to one who wished only ill to the young 
school-master. The other thought that kept his 
pluck alive was the recollection of Bull. He ap¬ 
proached a word as Bull approached the raccoon. He 
did not take hold until he was sure of his game. 
When he took hold, it was with a quiet a.s.surance of 
success. As Ralph spelled in this dogged way for 
half an hour the hardest words the Squire could find, 
the excitement steadily rose in all parts of the house, 
and Ralph's friends even ventured to whisper that 
“ maybe Jim had cotched his match after all! ” 




EDWARD EGGLESTON. 


399 


But Phillips never doubted of bis success. 

“ Theodolite,” said the Sijuire. 

“ T-b-e, the, o-d, od, tbeod, o, tbeodo, 1-y-t-e, 
theodolite,” spelled the chamfiion. 

“ Next,” said the Scjuire, nearly losing his teeth in 
his excitement. 

Ralph spelled the word slowly and correctly, and 
the conquered champion sat down in confusion. The 
excitement was so great for some minutes that the 
spelling was suspended. Everybody in the house 
had shown sympathy with one or other of the com¬ 
batants, except the silent shadow in the corner. It 
had not moved during the contest, and did not show 
any interest now in the result. 

“ Gewhilliky crickets! Thunder and lightning! 
Licked him all to smash!” said Bud, rubbing his 
hands on his knees. “ That beats my time all 
holler I ” 

And Betsy Short giggled until her tuck-comb fell 
out, though she was on the defeated side. 

Shocky got up and danced with pleasure. 

But one suffocating look from the aqueous eyes 
of Mirandy destroyed the last spark of Ralph’s 
pleasure in his triumph, and sent that awful below- 
zero feeling all through him. 

“ He’s powerful smart is the master,” said old Jack 
to Mr. Pete Jones. “ He’ll beat the whole kit and 
tuck of ’em afore he’s through. I kuow’d he was 
smart. That’s the reason I tuck him,” proceeded 
Mr. Means. 

“ Yaas, but he don’t lick enough. Not nigh,” 
answered Pete Jones. “ No lickin’, no lamin’, says I.” 

It was now not so hard. The other spellers on 
the opposite .side went down quickly under the hard 
words which the Sqtiire gave out. The master had 
mowed down all but a few, his opponents had given 
up the battle, and all had lost their keen interest in 
a contest to which there could be but one conclusion, 
for there were only the poor .spellers left. But Ralph 
Hartsook ran against a stump where he was least ex¬ 
pecting it. It was the Squire’s custom, when one of 
the smaller scholars or poorer spellers rose to spell 
against the master, to give out eight or ten easy words 
that they might have some breathing spell before being 
slaughtered, and then to give a poser or two which .soon 
settled them. He let them run a little, as a cat does 
a doomed mou.se. There was now but one person 


left on the opposite side, and as she ro.se in her 
blue calico dress, Ralph recognized Hannah, the 
bound girl at old Jack Means’s. She had not 
attended school in the district, and had never 
spelled in s{)elliug-school before, and was chosen 
last as an uncertain quantity. The Squire began 
with easy words of two syllables, from that page of 
Webster, so well-known to all who ever thumbed 
it, as “ Baker,” from the word that stands at the 
top of the page. She spelled these words in an 
absent and uninterested manner. As everybody 
knew that she would have to go down as soon as 
this preliminary skirmishing was over, everybody 
began to get ready to go home, and already there was 
a buzz of preparation. Young men were timidly 
asking girls if they could “.see them safe home,” 
which is the approved formula, and were trembling 
in mortal fear of “ the mitten.” Presently the 
Squire, thinking it time to close the contest, pulled 
his scalp forward, adjusted his glass eye, which had 
been examining his nose long enough, and turned 
over the leaves of the book to the great words at 
the place known to spellers as “ Incomprehensibility,” 
and began to give out those “ words of eight syllables 
with the accent on the sixth.” Listless scholars now 
turned round, and ceased to whisper, in order to be 
in the master’s final triumph. But to their surprise, 
“ ole Miss Meanses’ white nigger,” as some of them 
called her, in allusion to her slavish life, spelled these 
great words with as perfect ease as the master. Still, 
not doubting the result, the Squire turned from place 
to place and selected all the hard words he could find. 
The school became utterly quiet, the excitement was 
too great for the ordinary buzz. Would “ Meanses’ 
Hanner” beat the master? Beat the master that 
had laid out Jim Phillips? Everybody’s sympathy 
was now turned to Hannah. Ralph noticed that even 
Shocky had de.serted him, and that his face grew 
brilliant every time Hannah spelled a word. In fact, 
Ralph deserted himself If he had not felt that 
a victory given would insult her, he would have 
missed intentionally. 

“ Daguerreotype,” sniffled the Squire. It was 
Ralph’s turn. 

“ I)-a-u, dau-” 

“ Next.” 

And Hannah spelled it right. 




HARKIET BEECHER STOWE, 

AUTHOR OF “uncle TOM’s CABIN. 



EW names are more indelibly written upon our country’s history than 
tliat of Harriet Beecher Stowe. “ No book,” says George William 
Curtis, “was ever more a historical event than ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ 

It was the great happiness of Mrs. Stowe not only to have 
written many delightful books, but to have written one book which 
will always be famous not only as the most vivid picture of an ex¬ 
tinct evil system, but as one of the most powerful influences in overthrowing 
it ... If all whom she has charmed and quickened should unite to sing her 
praises, the birds of summer would be outdone.” 

Harriet Beecher Stowe was the sixth child of Reverend Lyman Beecher,—the 
great head of that great family which has left so deep an impress upon the heart 
and mind of the American people. She was born in Litchfield, Connecticut, in 
June, 1811,—-just two years before her next younger brother, Henry Ward 
Beecher. Her father was pastor of the Congregational Church in Litchfield, and her 
girlhood was passed there and at Hartford, where she attended the excellent semi¬ 
nary kept by her elder sister, Catharine E. Beecher. In 1832 her father ac¬ 
cepted a call to the presidency of Lane Theological Seminary, at Cincinnati, and 
moved thither with his family. Catharine Beecher went also, and established there 
a new school, under the name of the Western Female Institute, in which Harriet 
assisted. 

In 1833 Mrs. Stowe first had the subject of slavery brought to her personal 
notice by taking a trip across the river from Cincinnati into Kentucky in company 
with Miss Dutton, one of the associate teachers in the Western Institute. They 
visited the estate that afterward figured as that of Mr. Shelby, in “Uncle Tom’s 
Cabin,” and here the young authoress first came into personal contact with the 
slaves of the South. 

Among the professors in Lane Seminary was Calvin E. Stowe, whose wife, a dear 
friend of Miss Beecher, died soon after Dr. Beecher’s removal to Cincinnati. In 
1836 Professor Stowe and Harriet Beecher were married. They were admirably 
suited to each other. Pi’ofessor Stowe was a typical man of letters,—a learned, 
amiable, unpractical philosopher, whose philosophy was like that described by 
Shakespeare as “an excellent horse in the stable, but an arrant jade on a journey.” 
Her pi-actical ability and cheerful, inspiring courage were the unfailing support 
of her husband. 


400 














HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


401 


Tlie years from 1845 to 1850 were a time of severe trial to Mrs. Stowe. She and 
her husband both suffered from ill health, and the family was separated. Professor 
Stowe was struggling with poverty, and endeavoring at the same time to lift the 
Theological Seminary out of financial diflftculties. In 1849, while Professor Stowe 
was ill at a water-cure establishment in Vermont, their youngest child died of cholera, 



UNCLE TOM AND HIS BABY. 

‘ Ain’t she a peart young ’un? ’ ” 


which was then raging in Cincinnati. In 1850 it was decided to remove to Bruns¬ 
wick, Maine, the seat of Bowdoin College, where Professor Stowe was offered a 
position. 

The year 1850 is memorable in the history of the conflict with slavery. It was 
the year of Clay’s compromise measures, as they were called, which sought to satisfy 
the North by the admission of California as a free State, and to propitiate the South 
by the notorious “Fugitive Slave Law.” The slave power was at its height, and 

26 






402 


HAKRIET IJEECHER STOWE. 


seemed to hold all things under its feet; yet in truth it had entered upon the last 
stage of its existence, and the forces were fast gathering for its final overthrow. 
Professor Cairnes and others said truly, “The Fugitive Slave Law has been to 
the slave power a questionable gain. Among its first fruits was “Uncle Tom’s 
Cabin.” 

The story was begun as a serial in the Natiojial Era, June 5, 1851, and was 
announced to run for about three months, but it was not com{)leted in that paper 
until April 1, 1852. It had been contemplated as a mere magazine tale of perhaps 
a dozen chapters, but once begun it could no more be controlleil than the waters of the 
swollen Mississippi, bursting through a crevasse in its levees. The intense interest 
excited by the story, the demands made upon the author for more facts, the un¬ 
measured words of encouragement to keep on in her good work that poured in from 
all sides, and, above all, the ever-growing conviction that she had been intrusted 
with a great and holy mission, compelled her to keep on until the humble tale had 
assumed the proportions of a large volume. Mrs. IStowe repeatedly said, “I could 
not control the story, it wrote itself;” and, “I the author of ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’? 
No, indeed. The Lord himself wrote it, and I was but the humblest of instruments 
in his hand. To him alone should be given all the praise.” 

For the story as a serial the author i-eceived $800. In the meantime, however, 
it had attracted the attention of Mr. John P. Jewett, a Boston publisher, who 
proni])tly made overtures for its publication in book form. He offered Mr. and 
Mrs. (Stowe a half share in the profits, provided they would share with him the 
expense of publication. This was refused by the Professor, who said he was alto¬ 
gether too poor to assume any such risk; and the agreement finally made was that 
the author should receive a ten per cent, royalty upon all sales. 

In the meantime the fears of the author as to whether or not her book would be 
read were quickly dispelled. Three thousand copies were sold the very first day, 
a second edition was issued the following week, a third a few days later; and within 
a year one hundred and twenty editions, or over three hundred thousand copies, of 
the book had been issued and sold in this country. Almost in a day the poor pro¬ 
fessor’s wife had become the most talked-of woman in the world; her influence for 
good was spreading to its remotest corners, and henceforth she was to be a public 
character, whose every movement would be watched with interest, and whose every 
word would be quoted. The long, weary struggle with poverty was to be hers no 
longer; for, in seeking to aid the oppressed, she had also so aided herself that 
within four months from the time her hook was published it had yielded her $10,- 
000 in royalties. 

In 1852 Professor Stowe received a call to the professorshi]) of Sacred Literature 
in Andover Theological Seminary, and the family soon removed to their Massa¬ 
chusetts home. They were now relieved from financial pressure; but Mrs. Stowe’s 
healtli was still delicate; and in 1858 she went with her husband and brother to 
Lngland, where she received, much to her surprise, a universal welcome. She 
made many friends among the most distinguished peo])le in Great Britain, and on 
the continent as well. On her return she wrote the “Key to Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” 
and began “Dred, a Tale of the Dismal Swam]).” In fact, her literary career was 
just beginning. With “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” her powers seemed only to be fairly 


HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


403 



awakened. One work after another caiiie in quick succession. For nearly thirty 
years after the publication of “ Uncle Tom,” her pen was never idle. In 1854 she 
published “Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands,” and then, in ra})id succession, 
“The Minister’s AVooing,” “The Pearl of Orr’s Island,” “Agnes of Sorrento,” 
“House and Home Papers,” “Little Foxes,” and “Oldtown Folks.” These, how¬ 
ever, are but a small part of her works. Pesides more than thirty books, she has 
written magazine articles, short stories, and sketches almost without number. She 

has entertained, in¬ 
structed, and inspired 
a generation born long 
after the last slave was 
made free,and to whom 
the great question 
which once convulsed 
our country is only a 
name. But her lirst 
great work has never 
been surjiassed, and it 
will never be forgotten. 

After the war which 
accomplished the abo¬ 
lition of slavery, 51 rs. 
Stowe lived in Hart¬ 
ford, Connecticut, in 
summer, and spent the 
winters in Florida, 
where she bought a 
luxurious home. Her 
pen was hardly ever 
idle; andthepopular- 
itvof her works seemed 
to steadily increase. 
She passed away on 
the 1st of July, 1896, 
amid the surroundings 

o 




A SCENE IN UNCLE TOM’s CABIN. 


Little Eva. —“‘Oli, Uncle Tom ! what funny things you oo’e making tliere.’” of liei* quict, pi’Ctty 

1 1 ome at H a r t fo r d, 

Connecticut. The whole reading world was moved at the news of her death, and 
many a chord vibrated at the remembrance of her ]x)werful, and we may even say 
successful, advocacy of the cause of the slave. The good which “Uncle Tom’s 
Cabin” achieved can never be estimated, and the noble efibrts of its author have 
been interwoven in the work of the world. 






404 


HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. 

FROM “ UNCLE TOM’s CABIN.” 



T was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare w’as 
stretched on a bamboo lounge in the 
verandah, solacing himself with a cigar. 
Marie lay reclined on a sofa, opposite the window 
opening on the verandah, closely secluded under an 
awning of transparent gauze from the outrages of 
the mosquitoes, and languidly holding in her hand 
an elegantly-bound prayer-book. >She was holding 
it because it was Sunday, and she imagined she 
had been reading it—though, in fact, she had been 
only taking a succession of short naps with it open 
in her hand. 

IMiss Ophelia, who, after some rumaging, had 
hunted up a small Methodist meeting within riding 
distance, had gone out, with Tom as driver, to at¬ 
tend it, and Eva accompanied them. 

“I say, Augustine,” said iVIarie, after dozing 
awhile, “ I mu.st send to the city after my old 
doctor, Posey; I’m sure I’ve got the complaint of 
the heart.” 

“ Well; why need you send for him ? This 
doctor that attends Eva seems skillful.” 

“ I would not trust him in a critical case,” said 
Marie; “ and I think I may say mine is becoming 
so! I’ve been thinking of it these two or three 
nights past; I have such distressing pains and such 
strange feelings.” 

“ Oh, Marie, you are blue! I don’t believe it’s 
heart-complaint.” 

“ I daresay you don’t,” said Marie ; I was pre¬ 
pared to expect that. You can be alarined enough 
if Eva coughs, or has the least thing the matter with 
her ; but you never think of me.” 

“ If it’s particularly agreeable to you to have 
heart-disease, why. I’ll try and maintain you have it,” 
said St. Clare; “ I didn’t know it was.” 

“ Well, I only hope you won’t be sorry for this 
when it’s too late !” said Marie. “ But, believe it or 
not, my distress about Eva, and the exertions I have 
made with that dear child, have developed what I 
have long suspected.” 

What the exertions were which IMarie referred to 
it would have been difficult to state. St. Clare 
quietly made this commentary to himself, and went 


on smoking, like a hard-hearted wretch of a man as 
he was, till a carriage drove up before the verandah, 
and Eva and Miss Ophelia alighted. 

Miss Ophelia marched straight to her own chamber, 
to put away her bonnet and shawl, as was always her 
manner, before she spoke a word on any subject; 
while Eva came at St. Clare’s call, and was sitting on 
his knee, giving him an account of the services they 
had heard. 

They soon heard loud exclamations from IMiss 
Ophelia’s room (which, like the one in which they 
were sitting, opened to the verandah), and violent re- 
proor' addressed to somebody. 

“ What new witchcraft has Tops been brewing?” 
asked St. Clare. “ That commotion is of her raising. 
I’ll be bound ! ” 

And in a moment after, IMiss Ophelia, in high in¬ 
dignation, came dragging the culprit along. 

“ Come out here, now ! ” she said. “ I will tell your 
master ! ” 

‘‘ What’s the case now ? ” asked Augustine. 

“ The case is, that I cannot be plagued with this 
child any longer! It’s past all bearing; flesh and 
blood cannot endure it! Here, I locked her up, and 
gave her a hymn to study and what does she do but 
spy out where I put my key, and has gone to my 
bureau and got a bonnet-trimming and cut it all to 
pieces to make dolls’ jackets ! I never saw anything 
like it in my life.” 

“ I told you, cousin,” said Marie, “ that you’d find 
oiit that these creatures can’t be brought up without 
.severity. If I had n?y way, now,” she said, looking 
reproachfully at St. Clare, “ I'd send that child out 
and have her thoroughly whipped ; I’d have her 
whipped till she couldn’t stand ! ” 

“ I don’t doubt it,” said St. Clare. “ Tell me of 
the lovely rule of woman ! I never saw above a dozen 
women that wouldn’t half kill a horse, or a servant 
either, if they had their own way with them—let 
alone a man.” 

“ There is no use in this shilly-shally way of yours, 
St. Clare ! ” said Marie. “ Cousin is a woman of 
sense, and she sees it now as plain as I do.” 

IMiss Ophelia had just the capability of indigna- 













HARRIET BEECHER 8 TOWE. 


405 


tion that belongs to the thorough-paced housekeeper, 
and this had been pretty actively roused by the 
artifice and wastefulness of the child; in fact, many 
of my lady readers must own that they would have 
felt just so in her circumstances ; but Marie’s words 
went beyond her, and she felt less heat. 


“ I wouldn’t have the child treated so for the 
world,” she said ; “ but 1 am sure, Augustine, I don’t 
know Avhat to do. I’ve taught and taught, I’ve 
talked till I’m tired, I’ve whipped her, I’ve punished 
her in every way I can think of; and still she’s just 
what she was at first.” 



MISS OPHELIA AND TOPSY. 

“ I cannot be plagued with this child any longer ! ” 


“ Come here. Tops, you monkey ! ” said St. Clare, and blinking with a mixture of apprehensiveness and 
calling the child up to him. their usual odd drollery. 

Topsy came up ; her round, hard eyes gUttering [ What makes you behave so ? ” said St. Clare 












4o6 


HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


who could not help being amused with the child’s ex¬ 
pression. 

“ ’Spects it’s my wicked heart,” said Topsy, de¬ 
murely ; “ Miss Feely says so.” 

“ Don’t you see how much Miss Ophelia has done 
for you ? She says, she has done everything she can 
think of.” 

“ Lor, yes, mas’r! old missis used to say so, too. 
She whipped me a heap harder, and used to pull my 
ha’r, and knock my head agin the door; but it 
didn’t do me no good ! I ’spects if they’s lO pull every 
spear o’ ha’r out o’ my head it wouldn’t do no good 
neither—I’s so wicked ! Laws! I’s nothin’ but a 
nigger, no ways ! ” 

“ Well, 1 shall have to give her up,” said Miss 
Ophelia; “ I can’t have that trouble any longer.” 

“ Well, I’d just like to ask one question,” said St. 
Clare. 

“ What is it ? ” 

Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to 
save one heathen child, that you can have at home 
here, all to yourself, what’s the use of sending one 
or two poor missionaries off with it among thousands 
of just such? I suppose this child is about a fail- 
sample of what thou-sands of your heathen are.” 

Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer ; 
and Eva, who had stood a .silent spectator of the 
scene thus far, made a silent sign to Topsy to follow 
her. There w'as a little glas.s-roora at the corner of the 
verandah, which 8t. Clare used as a sort of reading- 
room ; and Eva and Top.sy disappeared into this place. 

“ What’s Eva going about now ? ” said St. Clare ; 

I mean to see.” 

And, advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain 
that covered the glass-door, and looked in. In a 
moment, laying his finger on his lips, he made a silent 
gesture to Miss Ophelia to come and look. There sat 
the two children on the floor, with their side faces 
towards them—Topsy with her usual air of careless 
drollery and unconcern ; but, opposite to her. Eva, 
her whole face fervent with feeling, and tears in her 
large eyes. 

“ What does make you so bad, Topsy ? Why won’t 
you try and be good ? Don’t you love anybody, 
Topsy ? ” 

“ Dun no nothin’ ’bout love; I loves candy and 
sich, that’s all,” said Topsy. 


“ But you love your father and mother ?” 

“ Never had none, ye know. I tolled ye that. Miss 
Eva.” 

“ Oh, I know,” said Eva, sadly ; “ but hadn’t you 
any brother, or sister, or aunt, or-” 

“ No, none on ’em—never had nothing nor no¬ 
body.” 

“ But, Topsy, if you’d only try to be good, you 
might-” 

“ Couldn’t never be nothin’ but a nigger, if I was 
ever so good,” said Topsy. “ If 1 could be skinned, 
and come white. I’d try then.” 

“ But people can love you, if you are black, 
Topsy. Miss Ophelia would love you if you were 
good.” 

Topsy gave the short, blunt laugh that was her 
common mode of expressing incredulity. 

“ Don’t you think so? ” .said Eva. 

“ No ; she can’t b’ar me, ’cause I’m a nigger!— 
she’d’s soon have a toad touch her. There can’t 
nobody love niggers, and niggers can’t do nothin’. I 
don’t care,” said Topsy, beginning to whistle. 

“ Oh, Topsy, poor child, / love you ! ” said Eva, 
with a sudden burst of feeling, and laying her little 
thin, white hand on Topsy’s shoulder. “ I love you 
because you haven’t had any father, or mother, or 
friends—because you’ve been a poor, abused child! 
I love you, and I want yon to be good. I am very 
unwell, Topsy, and I think I sha’n’t live a great while ; 
and it really grieves me to have you be so naughty. 
I wish you would try to be good for my .sake; it’s 
only a little while I shall be with you.” 

The round, keen eyes of the black child were 
overcast with tears ; large, bright drops rolled heavily 
down, one by one, and fell on the little white hand. 
Yes, in that moment a ray of real belief, a ray of 
heavenly love, had penetrated the darkness of her 
heathen .soul ! She laid her head down between her 
knees, and wept and sobbed; while the beautiful 
child, bending over her, looked like the picture of 
some bright angel stooping to reclaim a sinner. 

“ Poor Topsy ! ” said Eva, ‘‘ don’t you know that 
Jesus loves all alike ? He is just as willing to love 
you as me. He loves you just as I do, only more, 
because He is better. He will help you to be good, 
and you can go to heaven at last, and be an angel 
for ever, just as much as if you were white. Only 







HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 


407 


think of it, Topsy, you can be one of those ‘ spirits 
bright’ Uncle Tom sings about.” 

“ Oh, dear Miss Eva ! dear Miss Eva! ” said the 
child, “ I will try ! I will try! I never did care 
nothin’ about it before.” 

St. Clare at this moment dropped the curtain. “ It 
puts me in mind of mother,” he said to Miss 
Ophelia.' “ It is true what she told me : if we want 
to give sight to the blind, we must be willing to do 
as Christ did—call them to us and -put our hands on 
them." 

“ I’v-e always had a prejudice against negroes,” 
said Miss Ophelia ; and it’s a fact, I never could bear 
to have that child touch me ; but I didn’t think she 
knew it.” 

“ Trust any child to find that out,” said St. Clare ; 


“ there’s no keeping it from them. But I believe 
that all the trying in the world to benefit a child, and 
all the substantial favors you can do them, will never 
excite one emotion of gratitude while that feeling 
of repugnance remains in the heart; it’s a queer 
kind of I'act, but so it is.” 

“ I don’t know how I can help it,” said Miss 
Ophelia ; “ they are disagreeable to me—this child 
in particular. How can I help feeling so?” 

“ Eva does, it seems.” 

“ Well, she’s so loving ! xVfter all, though, she’s no 
more than Christ-like,” said Miss Ophelia; “ I wish 
I were like her. She might teach me a lesson.” 

“ It wouldn’t be the first time a little child had 
been used to instruct an old disciple, if it were so,” 
said St. Clare. 


THE OTHER WORLD. 



lies around us like a cloud. 

The world we do not see; 

Yet the sweet closing of an eye 
Ma}' bring us there to be. 


So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide. 
So near to press they seem. 

They lull us gently to our rest, 

They melt into our dream. 


Its gentle breezes fan our cheek, 
x\mid our worldly cares ; 

Its gentle voices whisper love. 

And mingle with our prayers. 

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat. 
Sweet helping hands are stirred ; 

And palpitates the veil between, 

With breathings almost heard. 

The .silence, awful, sweet, and calm. 
They have no power to break ; 

For mortal words are not for them 
To utter or partake. 


And, in the hush of rest they bring, 
’Tis easy now to see. 

How lovely and how sweet to pass 
The hour of death may be ;— 

To clo.se the eye and close the ear. 
Wrapped in a trance of bliss. 

And, gently drawn in loving arms. 

To swoon from that to this:— 

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep. 
Scarce asking where we are. 

To feel all evil sink away. 

All sorrow and all care ! 








MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE. 

(mariox hakland.) 

Popular Novelist and Domestic Economist. 

ARION HARLAND combines a wide variety of talent. She is 
probably the first writer to excel in the line of fiction and also to be 
a leader in the direction of domestic economy. She is one of the 
most welcomed contributors to the periodicals, and her books on 
practical housekeeping, common sense in the household, and several 
practical cookery books have smoothed the way for many a young 
housekeeper and probably promoted the cause of peace in numerous households. 

Mary Virginia Hawes was the daughter of a native of Massachusetts who was 
engaged in business in Richmond, Virginia. She was born in 1831, and received a 
good education. She began in early childhood to display her literary powers. She 
wrote for the magazines in her sixteenth year and her first contribution, “ iSIarrying 
Through Prudential Motives,” was so widely read that it was })ublished in nearly 
every journal in England, was translated and published throughout France, found 
its way back to England through a retranslation, and finally appeared in a new 
form in the United States. 

In 1856 she became the wdfe of Rev. Edward P. Terhune, afterwai’ds pastor of 
the Puritan Congregational Church in Brooklyn, where in recent years they have 
lived. Mrs. Terhune has always been active in charitable and church work, and 
has done an amount of writing equal to that of the most prolific authors. She has 
been editor or conducted departments of two or three different magazines and estab¬ 
lished and successfully edited the “Home Maker.” Some of her most noted stories 
are “ The Hidden Path ; ” “ True as Steel ; ” “ Husbands and Homes ; ” “ Phemie’s 
Temptation ; ” “ Ruby’s Husband; ” “ Handicaji; ” “Judith ; ” “ A Gallant Fight; ” 
and “ His Great Self.” Besides these books and a number of others, she has written 
almost countless essays on household and other topics. Her book, “ Eve’s Daughters,” 
is a standard work of counsel to girls and young women. She takes an active part 
in the literary and philanthropic organizations of New York City, and has been })ro- 
minent in the Woman’s Councils held under the auspices of a Chautauquan associa¬ 
tion. She was the first to call attention to the dilapidated condition of the grave of 
Mary Washington and started a movement to put the monument in proper condition. 
For the benefit of this movement, she -wrote and published “ The Story of Mary 

408 





















MARY VIRGINIA TERIIUNE. 


409 


A MANL^ 
(from “ A GA] 
FTER donning velvet jacket and slippers 
he sat down, and, lighting his cigar, leaned 
back to watch the lire and dream of 
Salome and their real home. 

Not until the weed was half consumed did he ob¬ 
serve an envelope on the table at his elbow. It was 
sealed and addressed to him in a ” back-hand” he did 
not recognize: 

“ In the Library. Nine O'clock, P. M. 

“ My Own Love —You say in your letter (burned 
as soon as I had committed the contents to memory) 
that I must never call you that again. There is a 
higher law than that of man's appointment, binding 
our hearts together, stronger even than that of your 
sweet, wise lips. Until you are actually married to 
the man whom you confess you do not love, you will, 
according to that divine law, be my own Marion— ” 

With a violent start, the young man shook the 
sheet from his fingers as he would a serpent. 

This was what he had promised not to read, or so 
much as to touch ! The veins stood out high and 
dark on his forehead ; he drew in the air hissingly. 
Had a basilisk uncoiled from his bosom and thrust a 
forked tongue in his face the shock would not have 
been greater. This was “ the letter written to 
]Marion ! ” He had thrown away six of the best 
years of his life upon the woman whom another man 
called his “ own lovethe man to whom she had 
confe.ssed that she did not love her betrothed husband ! 
Who was he ? 

“ If they are genuine, respect for the dead and 
mercy to the living require that they should be sup¬ 
pressed and destroyed,” ^Irs. Phelps had said of 
“ papers written a little, lohile before Marion’s death.” 
His word was pledged. But what name would he 
see if he reversed the sheet before destroying it ? 
With a bound of the heart that would have assured 
him, had proof been needed, what his bonnie living 
girl-love was to him, he put away all tender memories 
of the dead, false betrothed. He had worshipped 
and mourned the thinnest of shadows. He might 
owe respect—abstractly—to the dead, but no rever¬ 
ence to a wild dream from which he had been 
awakened. Who was the “ living ” to whom he was 
entreated to show mercy ? Where was the man who 

♦Copyright, Do 


HERO.* 

LANT FIGHT.”) 

had first robbed him, then let him play the sad-visaged 
dupe and fool, while the heyday of youth sli]»ped 
forever beyond his reach ? 

To learn that—to remember the name with execra¬ 
tion—to despise with the full force of a wronged and 
honest soul—perhaps to brand him as a cur and 
blackguard, should he ever cross his path—would not 
break his word. Was it not his right—the poor rag 
of compensation he might claim i'or the incalculable, 
the damnable evil the traitor had wrought ? He would 
confess to Salome’s mother to-morrow—but this one 
thing he would do. 

He stooped for the letter. 

“ Peace ! let him rest! God knoweth best! 

And the flowing tide comes in! 

And the flowing tide comes in ! ” 

It was only his beloved stepmother on her nightly 
round of nursery and Gerald’s chamber, singing to 
her guileless self in passing her stepson’s door to 
prove her serenity of sjurit; but Rex staggered back 
into his seat, put his elbows on his knees and covered 
his face Avith his hands. 

He .smelled the balsam-houghs slanting to the 
water, the trailing arbutus Salome wore in her belt; 
heard the waves lapping the prow and sides of the 
bounding boat. God’s glorious heaven Avas over 
them, and the sun was rising, after a long, long night, 
in his heart. The fresh, tender young voice told the 
tale of love and loss and patient submission. 

Aye, and could not he, affluent in heaA'en’s best 
blessings, loving and beloved by the noble, true 
daughter of the Christian heroine who expected her 
“ son ” to stand fast by his plighted word—the almost 
husband of a pure, high-sonled woman—afford to 
spare the miserable wretch Avhose OAvn mind and 
memory must be a continual hell ? 

He pitied, he almost forgave him, as he took up 
the sheets from the floor, the scrap of paper from 
the table, and, averting his eyes le.st the signature 
might leap out at him from the twisting flame, laid 
them under the forestick and did not look that way 
again until nothing was left of them but cinder and 
ashes. 

Id, Mead 4& Co. 









HELEN MARIA FISKE HUNT JACKSON. 

“ THE FRIEND OF THE RED MAN.” 

NE of the sights pointed out to a traveler in the West is Cheyenne 
Canyon, a wild and weird pass in the Rocky Mountains a short dis¬ 
tance from Colorado Springs. Some years ago the writer, in com¬ 
pany with a party of tourists, drove as far as a vehicle* could pass 
up the mountain-road that wound along a little stream which came 
tumbling down the narrow ravine splitting the mountain in twain. 
Soon we were compelled to abandon the wagon, and on foot we climbed the rugged 
way, first on one side and then on the other of the rushing rivnlet where the narrow 
path could find space enough to lay its crooked length along. Suddenly a little log- 
cabin in a clump of trees burst on our view. A boy with a Winchester rifie slung 
over his shoulder met us a few rods from the door and requested a fee of twenty- 
five cents each before permitting us to pass. 

“ What is it ?” inquired one of the party pointing at the cabin. “ This is the 
house Helen Hunt lived in and away above there is where she is buried,” answered 
the boy. We paid the fee, inspected the house, and then, over more rocky steeps, 
we climbed to the spot indicated near a falling cataract and stood beside a pile of 
stones thrown together by hundreds of tourists who had preceded us. It was the 
lonely grave of one of the great literary women of our age. We gathered some 
stones and added them to the pile and left her alone by the singing cataract, beneath 
the sighing branches of the firs and pines which stood like towering sentinels around 
her on Mount Jackson—for this peak was named in her honor. “ What a monu¬ 
ment!” said one, “ more lasting than hammered bronze I” “But not more so,” said 
another, “ than the good she has done. Her infiuence will live while this mountain 
shall stand, unless another dark age should sweep literature out of existence.” “I 
wonder the Indians don’t convert this place into a shrine and come here to worship,” 
ventured a third person. “Her ‘Ramona,’ written in their behalf, must have been 
produced under a divine inspiration. She was among all American writers their 
greatest benefactor.” 

Helen Maria Fiske was born in Amherst, Mass., October 18, 1831. She was the 
daughter of Professor Nathan Fiske of Amherst College, and was educated at 
Ipswick (Mass.) Female Seminary. In 1852 she married Captain Edward B. Hunt 
of the U. S. Navy, and lived with him at various posts until 1863, when he died. 
After this she removed to Newport, R. I., with her children, but one by one they 
died, until 1872 she was left alone and desolate. In her girlhood she had contributed 

410 
























HELEN MARIA FISKE HUNT JACKSON. 


411 


some verses to a Boston paper which were jirinted. Hhe wi'ote nothing more until 
two years after the death ot her husband, when she sent a number of poems to New 
\ork ])aj)ers which were signed H. H. and they attracted wide and favorable criti¬ 
cism. Tliese ])oems were collected and published under the title of “Verses from 
H. H.” (1870). Alter the death of her children she decided to devote herself to 
literature, and Irom that time to the close of her life—twelve years later—her books 
came in rajiid succession and she gained wide distinction as a writer of })rose and 
verse. Both her poetiy and prose works are characterized by deep thoughtfulness 
and a rare grace and beauty of diction. 

In 1873 Mrs. Hunt removed to Colorado for the benefit of her health, and in 
1875 became the wife of W m. 8. Jackson, a merchant of Colorado Springs; and it 
was in this beautiful little city, nestling at the foot of Pike’s Peak, with the perpetual 
snow on its summit always in sight, that she made her home for the remainder of 
her life, though she spent considerable time in traveling in New Mexico, Cali¬ 
fornia and the Eastern States gathering material for her books. 

Briefly catalogued, the works of Helen Hunt Jackson are: “Verses hy H. H.” 
(1870) ; “Bits of Travel” (1873) ; “ Bits of Talk About Home Matters” (1873) ; 
“Sonnets and Lyrics” (1870); “ jNIercy Philbrick’s Choice” (1876); “ Hettie’s 
Strange History ” (1877) ; “ A Century of Dishonor ” (1881); “ Bamona ” (1884). 

Besides the above, Mrs. Jackson wrote several juvenile books and two novels in 
the “ No Name” series ; and that ])owcrful series of stories, published under the pen- 
name of “Saxe Holme,” has also been attributed to her, although there is no abso¬ 
lute proof that she wrote them. “ A Century of Dishonor” made its author more 
famous than anything she produced up to that time, but critics now generally agree 
that “ Bamona,” her last book, is her most ])Owerful work, both as a novel and in its 
beneficent influence. It was the result of a most profound and exhaustive study of 
the Indian problem, to which she devoted the last and best years of her life. It 
was her most conscientious and symj)athetic work. It was through Helen Hunt 
Jackson’s influence that the government instituted important reforms in the treat¬ 
ment of the I'ed men. 

In June, 1884, Mrs. Jackson met with a painful accident, receiving a bad fracture 
of her leg. She was taken to California while convalescing and there contracted 
malai-ia, and at the same time develo])ed cancer. The complication of her ailments 
resulted in death, which occurred August 12, 1885. Her remains were carried back 
to Colorado, and, in accordance with her ex])ressed wish, huried on the })eak look¬ 
ing down into the Cheyenne Canyon. The spot was dear to her. The cabin below 
had been built for her as a quiet i-etreat, where, when she so desired, she could 
retire with one or two friends, and write undisturbed, alone with the ])rimeval 
forestand tlie voices which whispered through nature, and the pure, cool mountaiii-air. 


CHRISTMAS NIGHT AT SAINT PETER’S. 



Great hymns float tlirouj^h 
The shadowed aisles. I hear a slow 
Refrain, “ Forcive them, for they know 
Not what they do ! ” 


And foreiirn crowds are passing by, 
I am alone. 






412 


HELEN MARIA FISKE HUNT JACKSON 


With tender joy all others thrill; 

1 have but tears : 

The false priest’s voices, high and shrill, 
Reiterate the “ Peace, good will 
I have but tears. 

I hear anew 

The nails and scourge ; then come the low' 
Sad w'ords, “ Forgive them, for they know 
Not what they do ! ” 

Close by my side the poor souls kneel; 

I turn away; 

Half-pitying looks at me they steal ; 

They think, because I do not feel, 

I turn away ; 

Ah ! if they knew, 

IIow following them, where’er they go, 

I hear, “ Forgive them, for they know 
Not what they do ! ” 

Above the organ’s sweetest strains 
I hear the groans 
Of prisoners, who lie in chains. 

So near and in such mortal pains, 

I hear the groans. 


But Christ walks through 
The dungeon of St. Angelo, 

And says, “ Forgive them, for they know 
Not what they do ! ” 

And now the music sinks to sighs ; 

The lights grow dim : 

The Pastorella’s melodies 
In lingering echoes float and rise; 

The lights grow' dim ; 

More clear and true. 

In this sweet silence, seem to flow 
The words, “ Forgive them, for they know 
Not what they do ! ” 

The dawn swings incense, silver gray ; 

The night is past; 

Now comes, triumphant, God’s full day; 
No priest, no church can bar its way: 

The night is past; 

How on this blue 

Of God’s great banner, blaze and glow 
The w'ords, “ Forgive them, for they know 
Not what they do !” 


CHOICE OF COLORS. 



HE other day, as I was w'alking on one of 
the oldest and most picturesque streets of 
the old and picturesque town of Newport, 


R. L, I saw a little girl standing before the window 
of a milliner’s shop. 

It was a very rainy day. The pavement of the 
sidew'alks on this street is so sunken and irregular 
that in wet weather, unless one walks with very 
great care, he steps continually into small wells of 
water. Up to her ankles in one of these wells stood 
the little girl, apparently as unconscious as if she 
were high and dry before a fire. It was a very cold 
day too. I was hurrying along, wrapped in furs, and 
not quite warm enough even so. The child was but 
thinly clothed. She wore an old plaid shawl and a 
ragged knit hood of scarlet worsted. One little red 
ear stood out unprotected by the hood, and drops of 
water trickled down over it from her hair. She 
seemed to be pointing with her finger at articles in 
the window, and talking to some one inside. I 
watched her for several moments, and then crossed 
the street to see what it all meant. I stole noi.selessly 
up behind her, and she did not hear me. The win¬ 


dow was full of artificial flowers, of the cheapest sort, 
but of very gay colors. Here and there a knot of 
ribbon or a bit of lace had been tastefully added, 
and the whole effect was really remarkably gay and 
pretty. Tap, tap, tap, went the small hand against 
the window-pane; and with every tap the uncon¬ 
scious little creature murmured, in a half-whispering, 
half-singing voice, “ I choose that color.’’ “ I choose 
that color.” “ I choose that color.” 

I stood motionle.ss. I could not sec her face; 
but there was in her whole attitude and tone the 
heartiest content and delight. I moved a little to 
the right, hoping to see her face, without her seeing 
me; but the .slight movement caught her ear, and in 
a second she had sprung aside and tuyned toward me. 
The .spell was broken. She was no longer the queen 
of an air-castle, decking herself in all the rainbow 
hues which pleased her eye. She was a poor beggar 
child, out in the rain, and a little frightened at the 
approach of a stranger. She did not move away, 
however; but stood eyeing me irresolutely, with that 
pathetic mixture of interrogation and defiance in her 
face which is so often seen in the prematurely devel- 









HELEN MARIA FISKE HUNT JACKSON. 


413 


o|)ed faces of poverty-stricken children. “ Aren’t the 
Colors pretty ? ” I said. She brightened instantly. 

“ Yes’m. I’d like a goon av tint blue.” 

“ But you will take cold standing in the wet,” said 
I. “ Won’t you come under my umbrella?” 

She looked down at her wet dress suddenly, as if 
it had not occurred to her before that it was raining. 
Then she drew first one little foot and then the other 
out of the muddy puddle in which she had been 
standing, and, moving a little closer to the window, 
said, “ I’m not jist goin’ home, mem. I’d like to 
stop here a bit.” 

So I left her. But, after I had gone a few blocks, 
the impulse .seized me to return by a cross street, and 
see if she were still there. Tears sprang to my eyes 
as I first caught sight of the upright little figure, 
standing in the same spot, still pointing with the 
rhythmic finger to the blues and reds and yellows, 
and half chanting under her breath, as before, “ I 
choose that color.” “ I choose that color.” “ I 
choo.se that color.” 

I went quietly on my way, without disturbing her 
again. But 1 said in my .heart, “ Little Me.ssenger, 


Interpreter, Teacher! I will remember you all my 
life.” 

Why should days ever be dark, life ever be color¬ 
less? There is always sun; there are always blue 
and scarlet and yellow and purjde. We cannot reach 
them, perhaps, but we*can see them, if it is only 
“ through a glass, and “ darkly,”—still we can see 
them. We can “ choose ” our colors. It rains, per¬ 
haps ; and we are standing in the cold. Never mind. 
If we look earnestly enough at the brightness which 
is on the other side of the glass, we shall forget the 
w'et and not feel the cold. And now' and then a 
pas.ser-by, who has rolled himself up in furs to keep 
out the cold, but shivers neveitheless,—who has 
money in his purse to buy many colors, if he likes, 
but, nevertheiess, goes grumbling because some colors 
are too dear for him,—such a pas.ser-by, chancing to 
hear our voice, and see the atmosphere of our content, 
may learn a wondrous secret,—that pennilessness is 
not poverty, and ownership is not po.ssession ; that to 
be without is not ahvays to lack, and to reach is not 
to attain; that sunlight is for all eyes that look up, 
and color for those who “ choose.” 



* * * * 




V ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦.♦^ » ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦. ♦.*■ ♦ ♦ •♦• ♦• ♦; ♦ ♦- ♦♦:♦♦♦-♦♦» 





* * ♦ ♦ 


FEANCES H0DG80N BURNETT. 

FAMOUS AUTHOK OF “ LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.” 


F Mrs. Burnett were not a native of England, she might be called a 
typical American woman. As all Americans, however, are descended 
at very few removes from foreign ancestors, it may, nevertheless, be 
said of the young English girl, who crossed the ocean with her 
widowed mother at the age of sixteen, that she has sliown all the 
pluck, energy and perseverance usually thought of as belonging to 
Americans. She settled with her mother and sisters on a Tennessee farm ; but soon 
began to write short stories, the first of which was published in a Philadelphia 
magazine in 1867. Her first story to acliieve popularity was “ Tliat Lass o’ 
Lowrie’s,” published in “Scribner’s Magazine” in 1877. It is a story of a 
daughter of a miner, the father a vicious character, whose neglect and abuse l ender 
all the more remarkable the virtue and real refinement of the daughter. JNIrs. 
Burnett delights in heroes and heroines whose characters contrast strongly with 
their circumstances, and in some of her stories, especially in “ A Lady of Quality,” 
published in 1895, she even verges on the sensational. 

In 1873 Miss Hodgson was married to Doctor Burnett, of Knoxville, Tennessee. 
After a two years’ tour in Europe, they took up their residence in the city of AVasli- 
ington, where they have since lived. 

Mrs. Burnett’s longest novel, “ Through One Administration,” is a story of the 
political and social life of the Capital. “Pretty Polly Pemberton,” “Esmeralda,” 
“Louisiana,” “A Fair Barbarian,” and “ Hawortlds ” are, after those already 
mentioned, her most jiopular stories. “ That Lass o’ Lowrie’s ” has been dramatized. 
Mrs. Hodgson is most widely known, however, by her Children Stories, the most 
famous of which, “Little Lord Fauntleroy,” appeared as a serial in “St. Nicholas” 
in 1886, and has since been dramatized and ])layed in both England and America. 

Since 1885 her health has not permitted her to write so voluminously as she had 
previously done, but she has, nevertheless, been a frequent contributor to periodicals. 
Some ofjier articles have been of an auto-biographical nature, and her story “The 
One I Knew Best of All ” is an account of her life. She is very fond of society 
and holds a high place in the social world. Her alert imagination and her gift of 
expression have enabled her to use her somewhat limited 0]>portunity of observa¬ 
tion to the greatest advantage, as is shown in her successful interpretation of the 
Lancdshiie dialect and the founding ot the storv of doan Lowrie on a casual 
glimpse, during a visit to a mining village, of a beautitul young woman followed 
by a cursing and abusive father. 



414 


















FRANCKS HODGSON BURNETT. 


415 


PRETTY I’OLI^Y P* 

FROM “ PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON.” 


RAMLEIGH,” ventured little Popham, 
“ you haven’t spoken for half an hour, by 
Jupiter!” 

Framlei»;h—Captain Gaston Framleigh, of the 
Guards—did not move. He had been sitting for 
some time before the window, in a position more 
noticeable for ease than elegance, with his arms folded 
upon the back of his chair; and he did not disturb 
himself, when he condescended to reply to his youth¬ 
ful admirer and ally. 

“Half an hour?” he said, with a trancjuil half¬ 
drawl, w’hich had a touch of alfectation in its cool¬ 
ness, and yet was scarcely pronounced enough to be 
disagreeable, or even unpleasant. “ Haven’t I ?” 

“ No, you have not.” returned Popham, encour¬ 
aged by the negative amiability of his manner. “ I 
am sure it is half an hour. What’s up?” 

“ Up ?” still half-abstractedly. “ Nothing ! Fact 
is, I believe I have been watching a girl!” 

Little Popham sprang down, for he had been sitting 
on the table, and advanced toward the window, hur¬ 
riedly, holding his cigar in his hand. 

“ A girl!” he exclaimed. “ Where ? What sort 
of a girl ?” 

“ As to sort,” returned Framleigh, “ T don’t know 
the species. A sort of girl I never saw before. Rut, if 
you wait, you may judge for yourself. She will soon 
be out there in the garden again. She has been 
darting in and out of the hou.se for the last twenty 
minutes.” 

“Out of the house?” said Popham, eagerly, “ Do 
you mean the house opposite ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ By Jupiter!” employing his usual mild expletive^ 
“ look here, old fellow, had .she a white dress on, and 
geranium-colored bows, and—” 

“Yes,” said Framleigh. “And she is rather tall 
for such a girl; and her hair is cut, on her round 
white forehead. Sir Peter Lely fashion (they call it 
banging, I believe), and she gives you the impression, 
at first, of being alt eyes, great dark eyes, with—” 

“ Long, curly, black la.shes,” interpolated Popham, 
with enthusiasm. “By Jupiter! I thought so ! It’s 
pretty Polly P.” 

* Copyright, T. B. 


He was so evidently excited that Framleigh looked 
up with a touch of interest, though he was .scarcely a 
man of enthusia.sm himself. 

“ Pretty Polly P.l” he repeated. “ Rather familiar 
mode of speech, isn’t it ? Who is pretty Polly P.?” 

Popham, a good-natured, sensitive little fellow, 
actually colored. 

“ Well,” he admitted, somewhat confusedly, “ I 
dare say it does sound rather odd, to people who 
don’t know her; but I can assure yoti, Framleigh, 
though it is the name all our fellows seem to give 
her with one accord, I am sure there is not one of 
them who means it to appear disrespectful, or—or 
even cheeky,” resorting, in de.speration, to slang. 
“ She is not the sort of a girl a fellow would ever be 
disrespectful to, even though she is such a girl—so 
jolly and innocent. For my part, you know, I’d face 
a good deal, and give up a good deal any day, for 
pretty Polly P.; and I’m only one of a many.” 

Framleigh half smiled, and then looked out of 
the window again, in the direction of the house 
opposite. 

“ Dare.say,” he commented, placidly. “ And very 
laudably, too. But you have not told me what the 
letter P. is intended to .signify. ‘ Pretty Polly P.’ is 
agreeable and alliterative, but indefinite. It might 
mean Pretty Polly Popham.” 

“ I wi.sh it did, by Jupiter !” cordially, and with 
more color ; “ but it does not. It means Pember¬ 
ton ? ” 

“ Pemberton !” echoed Framleigh, with an intona¬ 
tion almo.st savoring of disgust. “ You don’t mean 
to say she is that Irish fellow’s daughter?” 

“ She is his niece,” was the answer, “ and that 
amounts to the same thing, in her case. She has 
lived with old Pemberton ever since she was four years 
old, and she is as fond of him as if he was a woman, 
and her mother; and he is as fond of her as if she 
was his daughter ; but he couldn’t help that. Every 
one is fond of her.” 

“ Ah !” said Framleigh. “ I see. As you .say, 
' She is the .sort of girl.’ ” 

“ 'There she is, again !” exclaimed Popham, sud¬ 
denly. 

Peter.«on <fe Bros. 











4 i6 


FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. 


And there she was, surely enough, and they had a 
full view of her, geranium-colored bows and all. She 
seemed to be a trifle partial to the geranium-colored 
bows. Not too partial, however, for they were very 
nicely put on. Here and there, down the front of 
her white morning dress, one prettily adjusted on the 
side of her hair, one on each trim, slim, black kid 
slipper. If they were a weakness of hers, they were 
by no means an inartistic one. And as she came 
down the garden-walk, with a little flower-pot in her 
hands—a little earthen‘-pot, with some fresh gloss¬ 
leaved little plant in it—she was pleasant to look at, 
pretty Polly P.—very ])leasant; and Gaston Fram- 
leigh was conscious of the fact. 

It was only a small place, the house opposite and 
the garden was the tiniest of gardens, being only a j 
few yards of ground, surrounded by iron railings. 
Indeed, it might have presented anything but an at¬ 
tractive appearance, had pretty Polly P. not so 
crowded it with bright blooms. Its miniature-beds 
were full of brilliantly-colored flowers, blue-eyed lobelia, 
mignonette, scarlet geraniums, a thrifty rose or so, 
and numerous nasturtiums, with ferns, and much 
pleasant, humble greenery. There were narrow boxes 
of flowers upon every window-ledge, a woodbine 
climbed round the door, and, altogether, it was a very 
different place from what it might have been, under 
difi'erent circumstances. 

And down the graveled path, in the midst of all 
this flowery brightness, came Polly with her plant to 
set out, looking not unlike a flower herself. She was 
very busy in a few minutes, and she went about her 
work almost like an artist, flourishing her little 
trowel, digging a nest for her plant, and touching it, 
when she transplanted it, as tenderly as if it had been 
a day-old baby. She was so earnest about it, that, 
before very long, Framleigh was rather startled by 
hearing her begin to whistle, softly to herself, and, 
seeing that the sound had grated upon him, Popham 
colored and langhed half-apologetically. 

“ It is a habit of hers,” he said. “ She hardly 
knows when she does it. She often does things 
other girls would think strange. But she is not like 
other girls.” 

Framleigh made no reply. He remained silent, and 
simply looked at the girl. He was not in the most 
communicative of moods, this morning ; he was feel¬ 


ing gloomy and depressed, and not a little irritable, 
as he did, now and then. He had good reason, he 
thought, to give way to these fits of gloom, occasion¬ 
ally ; they were not so much an unamiable habit as 
his enemies fancied; he had some ground for them, 
though he was not prone to enter into particulars 
concerning it. Certainly he never made innocent 
little Popham, “ Lambkin Popham,” as one of his 
fellow-officers had called him, in a brilliant moment, 
his confidant. He liked the simjfle, affectionate little 
fellow, and found his admiration soothing; but the 
time had not yet arrived, when the scales not yet hav¬ 
ing fallen from his eyes, he could read such guilele.ss, 
almost iiLsignificant problems as “ Lambkin ” Popham 
clearly. 

So his companion, only dimly recognizing the out¬ 
ward element of his mood, thought it signified a dis¬ 
taste for that soft, scarcely unfeminine, little piping 
of pretty Polly’s, and felt bound to speak a few words 
in her favor. 

‘‘ She is not a masculine sort of a girl at all. Fram¬ 
leigh,” he said. You would be sure to like her. 
The company fairly idolize her.” 

“ Company!” echoed Framleigh. “ What com¬ 
pany?” 

‘‘Old Buxton’s company,” was the reply. “The 
theatrical lot at the Prince's, you know, where she 
acts.” 

Framleigh had been bending forward, to watch 
Polly patting the mould daintily, as she bent over 
her flower-bed ; but he drew back at this, conscious 
of experiencing a shock, far stronger and more 
disagreeable than the whistling had caused him to 
feel. 

“ An actress !” he exclaimed, in an annoyed tone. 

“ Yes, and she w'orks hard enough, too, to support 
herself, and help old Pemberton,” gravely. 

“ The worse for her,” with impatience. “ And the 
greater rascal old Pemberton, for allowing it.” 

It was just at this moment that Polly looked up. 
She raised her eyes carelessly to their window, and 
doing so, caught sight of them both. Young Pop¬ 
ham blushed gloriously, after his usual sensitive fash¬ 
ion, and she recognized him at once. She did not 
blush at all herself, however ; she just gave him an arch 
little nod, and a delightful smile, which showed her 
, pretty white teeth. 








MARY NOAILLES MURFREE. 

(CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK.) 

Author of the Prophet of the Smoky MountaiiiBy 

Hf] pen name of Charles Egbert Craddock has become familiarly 
known throughout the English-speaking world in connection with 
the graphic delineations of character in the East Tennessee Moun¬ 
tains, to which theme the writings of this talented author have been 
devoted. Until long after the name had become famous the writer 
was supposed to be a man, and the following amusing story is told of 
the way in which the secret leaked out. Her works were published by a Boston 
editor, and the heavy black handwriting, together with the masculine ring of her 
stories, left no suspicion that their author was a delicate woman. Thomas Baily 
Aldrich, who was editor of the “Atlantic Monthly,” to which her writings came, 
used to say, after an interval had elapsed subsequent to her last contribution, “I 
wonder if Craddock has taken in his winter supply of ink and can let me have a 
serial.” One day a card came to Mr. Aldrich bearing the well-known name in the 
well-known writing, and the editor rushed out to greet his old contributor, expecting 
to see a rugged Tennessee mountaineer. When the slight, delicate little woman 
arose to answer his greeting it is said that Mr. Aldrich put his hands to his face and 
simply spun round on his heels without a word, absolutely bewildered with astonish¬ 
ment. 

Miss Murfree was born in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, in 1850, and is the great- 
granddaughter of Colonel Hardy Murfree of Revolutionary fame, for whom the 
city of Murfreesboro was named. Her father was a lawyer and a literary man, 
and Mary was carefully educated. Unfortunately in her childhood a stroke of 
paralysis made her lame for life. After the close of the war, the family being left 
in destitute circumstances, they moved to St. Louis, Missouri, and Miss Murfree 
contributed largely to their pecuniary aid by her fruitful pen. Her volumes 
include “In the Tennessee Mountains” (1884), “AVhere the Battle was Fought” 
(1884), “Down the Ravine” (1885), “The Prophet of the Great Smoky Moun¬ 
tains” (1885), “In the Clouds” (1886), “The Story of Keedon Bluffs” (1887), 
“The Despot of Broomsedge Cove” (1888), all of which works have proven their 
popularity by a long-continued sale, and her subsequent works will no doubt achieve 
equal popularity. She has contributed much matter to the leading magazines of the 
day. She is a student of humanity and her portraitures of Tennessee moun- 
27 417 

























4i8 


MARY NOAILLES MUKFKEE. 


taiiieers have great historic value aside from the entertainment they furnish to the 
careless reader. It is her delineation of mountain character and her description of 
mountain scenery that have ])laced her works so prominently to the front in this 
critical and prolific age of novels. “Her style,” says a recent reviewer, “is bold, 
full of humor, yet as delicate as a bit of lace, to which she adds great power of plot 
and a keen wit, together with a homely philosophy bristling with sparkling truths. 
For instance, “the little old woman who sits on the edge of a chair” in one of her 
novels, and remarks “There ain’t nothin’ so becornin’ to fools as a shet mouth,” 
lias added quite an original store to America’s already proverbial literature. 


THE CONFESSION* 

(from “the prophet of the great smoky mountains.”) 


HE congregation composed itself to listen to 
the sermon. There was an expectant 
pause. Kelsey remembered ever after the 
tumult of emotion with which he stepped forward 
to the table and opened the book. He turned to the 
New Testament for his text,—and the leaves with a 
familiar hand. Some ennobling phase of that won¬ 
derful story which would touch the tender, true 
affinity of human nature for the higher things.— 
from this he would preach to-day. And yet, at the 
same moment, with a contrariety of feeling from 
which he .'shrank aghast, there was sulking into his 
mind that gruesome company of doubts. In double 
lile they cam’e: fate and free agency, free-will .and 
fore-ordinatiou, infinite mercy and infinite justice, 
(lod's loving kindness and man's intolerable misery, 
redemption and damnation. He had evolved them 
all from his own unconscious logical faculty, and they 
pursued him as if he had. in some spiritual necromancy, 
conjured up a devil—nay, a legion of devils. Per- 
ha))S if he had known how they had as.saulted the 
hearts of men in times gone past; how they had been 
combated and baffled, and yet have risen and pur¬ 
sued again; how in the scrutiny of science and 
re.search men have pas.sed before their awful j)resence, 
analyzed them, ])hilosophizetl about them, and found 
them interesting; how others, in the levity of the 
world, having heard of them, grudged the time to 
think upon them.—if he had known all this, he 
might have felt .sume courage in numbers. As it was, 
there was no fight left in him. He closed the book 
with a sudden impulse, “ My frien's,” he said, “ I 
.Stan' not hyar ter jireach ter day, but fur confession.” 


There was a galvanic .start among the congregation, 
then intense silence. 

“ I hev los’ my faith ! ” he cried out, with a poig¬ 
nant despair. “ God ez’ gin it—ef thear is a God— 
he’s tuk it away. You-uns kin go on. You-uns kin 
b'lieve. Yer paster b’lieves, an’ he'll lead ye ter 
grace,—leastwise ter a better life. But fur me 
thar’s the nethermost depths of hell, ef ”—how hi.s 
faith and his unfaith now tried him !—“ ef thar be 
enny hell. Leastwise—Stop, brother,” he held up 
his hand in deprecation, for Parson ’i’obin had risen 
at last, and with a white, scared face. Nothing like 
this had ever been heard in all the length and breadth 
of the Great Smoky iMountains. “ Bear with me a 
little; ye'll see me hyar no more. Fur me thar is 
shame, ah ! an’ trial, ah ! an’ doubt, ah ! an’ despair, 
ah ! The good things o’ heaven air denied. My 
name is ter be er byword an’ a reproach 'mongst ye. 
Ye’ll grieve ez ye hev ever learn the AYord from me, 
ah! Ye’ll be held in derision! An’ I hev bed 
trials,—none like them es air cornin’, coinin’ down 
the wind. I hev been a man marked fur sorrow, 
an’ now fur shame.” He stood erect; he looked 
bold, youthful. The weight of his secret, lifted now, 
had been heavier than he knew. In his eyes shone 
that strange light which was frenzy or prophecy, or 
inspiration ; in his voice rang a vibration they had 
never before heard. “ I will go forth from luongst 
ye,—I that am not of ye. Another shall gird me an’ 
carry me where I would not. Hell an’ the devil hev 
prevailed agin me. Pray fur me, brethren, ez I 
cannot pray fur myself Pray that God may yet 
.speak ter me—speak from out o’ the whirlwind.” 



*Copyriglit, lloiigliton, Mifflin & Co. 









AMELIA E. BARR 


THE POPULAR NOVELIST. 

ERHAPS no other writer in the United States commands so wide a 
circle of readers, both at home and abroad, as does Mrs. Barr. She 
is, however, j)ersonally, very little known, as her disposition is some¬ 
what shy and retiring, and most of her time is spent at her home 
on the Storm King Mountain at Cornwall-on-the-Hiidson, New 
York 

Mrs. Barr’s life has been an eventful one, broken in u])on by sorrow, bereavement 
and hardship, and she has risen superior to her trials and made her way througli 
difficulties in a manner which is })ossible only to an individual of the strongest 
character. 

Amelia E. Huddleston was born at Ulverstone, in the northwest of England, in 
18d2. She early became a thorough student, her studies being directed by her 
father, who was an eloquent and learned [)reacher. When she was seventeen, she 
went to a celebrated school in Scotland; but her education was })rincipaHy derived 
from the reading of books to her father. 

AVhen about eighteen she was married to Robert Barr, and soon after came to 
America, traveling in the West and South. They were in New Orh^ans in 18/)6 
and were driven out by the yellow fever, and settled in Austin, Texas, where iVIr. 
Barr received an apjiointment in the comptroller’s office. Removing to Galveston 
after the Civil War, Mr. Barr and his four sons died in 1876 of yellow fever. As 
soon as she could safely do so, Mrs. Barr took her three daughters to New York, 
where she obtained an ap|)ointment to assist in the education of the three sons of a 
])rominent merchant. When she had ])repared these boys for college, she looked 
about for other means of livelihood, and, by the assistance of Henry AVard Beecher 
and Doctor Lyman Abbott, she was enabled to get .some contributions accejited by 
Messrs. Har})er & Brothers, for wliose periodicals she wrote for a number of years. 
An accident which happened to her in 1884 changed her life and conferred upon 
the world a very great benefit. She was confined to her chair foi’ a considerable 
time, and, being compelled to abandon her usual methods of work, she wrote her 
first novel, “ Jan Vedder’s Wife.” It was in.stantly successful, running through 
many editions, and has been translated into one or two European languages. Since 
that time she has published numerous stoi-ies. One of the most siu'cessful was 
“Friend Olivia,” a study of Quaker character which recalls the closing years of 
the Commonwealth in England, and which her girlhood’s home at Ulverstone, the 
scene of the rise of Quakerism, gave her special advantages in preparing. It is an 

419 













420 


AMELIA E. BARR. 


unusually powerful story; and the pictures of Cromwell and George Fox are not only 
refreshingly new and bright but remarkably just and appreciative. Some of her other 
stories are “ Feet of Clay,” the scene of which is laid on the Isle of Man; “ The Bow of 
Orange Ribbon,” a study of Dutch life in Kew York; “ Remember the Alamo,” 
recalling the revolt of Texas; “ She Loved a Sailor,” which deals with sea life and 
which draws its scenes from the days of slavery ; “ The Last of the MacAllisters;” 
“ A Sister of Esau ; ” and “ A Rose of a Hundred Leaves.” Only a slight study of 
JNIrs. Barr’s books is necessary to show the wide range of her sympathies, her quick 
and vivid imagination, and her wonderful literary power ; and her career has been 
an admirable illustration of the power of some women to win success even under the 
stress of sorrow, disaster and bereavement. 


LITTLE JAN’S TRIU3IPH.* 
(from “jane vedder’s wife.”) 


S she approached her house, she saw a crowd 
of boys, and little Jan walking proudly 
in front of them. One was playing 
“ Miss Flora McDonald's Reel ” on a violin, and 
the gay strains were accompanied by finger-snapping, 
whistling, and occasional shouts. “ There is no quiet 
to be found anywhere, this morning,” thought Mar¬ 
garet, but her curiosity was aroused, and she went 
towards the children. They saw her coming, and 
with an accession of clamor hastened to meet her. 
Little Jan carried a faded, battered wreath of un¬ 
recognizable materials, and he walked as proudly as 
Pompey may have walked in a Roman triumph. 
When Margaret saw it, she knew well what had hap¬ 
pened, and she opened her arms, and held the boy to 
her heart, and kissed him over and over, and cried 
out, “ Oh, my brave little Jan, brave little Jan ! 
How did it happen then ? Thou tell me quick.” 

“ Hal Ragner shall tell thee, my mother;” and 
Hal eagerly stepped forward : 

“ It was last night, iNIistress Yedder, we were all 
watching for the‘Arctic Bounty; ’ but she did not come, 
and this morning as we were playing, the word was 
passed that she had reached Peter Fae’s pier. Then 
we all ran, but thou knowest that thy Jan runs like a 
red deer, and so he got far ahead, and leaped on 
board, and was climbing the mast first of all. Then 
Bor Skade, he tried to climb over him, and Nichol 
Sinclair, he tried to hold him back, but the sailors 
shouted, ‘ Bravo, little Jan Yedder!” and the skip¬ 
per shouted ‘ Bravo!’ and thy father, he shouted 


higher than all the rest. And when Jan had cut 
loose the prize, he was like to greet for joy, and he 
clapped his hands, and kissed Jan, and he gave him 
five gold sovereigns,—.see, then, if he did not!” 
And little Jan proudly put his hand in his pocket, 
and held them out in his small soiled palm. 

The feat which little Jan had accomplished is one 
which means all to the Shetland boy that his first 
buffalo means to the Indian youth. . When a whaler 
is in Arctic seas, the sailors on the first of May make 
a garland of such bits of ribbons, love tokens, and 
keepsakes, as have each a private history, and this 
they tie to the top of the mainmast. There it 
swings, blow high or low, in sleet and hail, until the 
ship reaches her home-port. Then it is the supreme 
emulation of every lad, and especially of every sailor’s 
son, to be first on board and first up the mast to cut 
it down, and the boy who does it is the hero of the 
day, and has won his footing on every Shetland boat. 

What wonder, then, that Margaret was proud and 
happy ? What wonder that in her glow of delight 
the thing she had been seeking was made clear to 
her ? How could she go better to Suneva than with 
this crowd of happy boys ? If the minister thought 
she ought to share one of her blessings with Suneva, 
she would double her obedience, and ask her to share 
the mother’s as well as the wife’s joy. 

“ One thing I wish, boys,” she said happily, “let, 
us go straight to Peter Fae’s house, for Hal Ragner 
must tell Suneva Fae the good news also.” So, with 
a shout, the little company turned, and very soon 



* Copyright, Dodd, Mead & Co. 






AMELIA E. BARR. 


421 


Suneva, who was busy salting some fish in the cellar 
of her house, heard her name called by more than 
fifty shrill voices, in fifty ditierent keys. 

She hurried upstairs, saying to herself, “ It will be 
good news, or great news, that has come to pass, no 
doubt; for when ill-luck has the day, he does not call 
any one like that; he comes sneaking in.” Her rosy 
face was full of smiles when she opened the door, 
but when she saw Margaret and Jan standing first of 
all, she was for a moment too amazed to speak. 

Margaret pointed to the wreath ; “ Our Jan took 
it from the topmast of the ‘ Arctic Bounty,’ ” she 


said. “ The boys brought him home to me, and I 
have brought him to thee, Suneva. I thought thou 
would like it.” 

“ Our Jan !” In those two words Margaret can¬ 
celled everything remembered against her. Suneva’s 
eyes filled, and she stretched out both her hands to 
her step-daughter. 

“ Come in, Margaret! Come in, my brave, darhng 
Jan! Come in, boys, everyone of you! There is 
cake, and wheat bread, and preserved fruit enough 
for you all; and I shall find a shilling for every boy 
here, wRo has kept Jan’s triumph with him.” 


THE OLD PIANO. 


low still and dusky is the long-closed room ! 

I What lingering shadows and what faint 
I perfume 

Of Eastern treasures!—sandal wood and 
scent 

With nard and cassia and with roses blent. 

Let in the sunshine. 

Quaint cabinets are here, boxes and fans. 

And hoarded letters full of hopes and plans. 

I pass them by. I came once more to see 
The old piano, dear to memory. 

In past days mine. 

Of all sad voices from forgotten years. 

Its is the saddest; see what tender tears 
Drop on the yellow keys as, soft and slow, 

I play some melody of long ago. 

How strange it seems ! 

The thin, weak notes that once were rich and strong 
Give only now the shadow of a song— 

The dying echo of the fuller strain 
That I shall never, never hear again. 

Unless in dreams. 


What hands have touched it! Fingers small and 
white, 

Since stiff and weary with life’s toil and fight; 

Dear clinging hands that long have been at rest. 
Folded serenely on a quiet breast. 

Only to think, 

0 white sad notes, of all the pleasant days, 

The happy songs, the hymns of holy praise. 

The dreams of love and youth, that round you cling ! 
Do they not make each sighing, trembling string 
A mighty link ? 

The old piano answers to my call, 

And from my fingers lets the lost notes fall. 

O soul! that I have loved, with heavenly birth 
Wilt thou not keep the memory of earth. 

Its smiles and sighs? 

Shall wood and metal and white ivory 
Answer the touch of love with melody, 

.Vnd thou forget ? Dear one, not so. 

I move thee yet (though how I may not know) 
Be 3 ’ond the skies. 








LYDIA HUNTLP:Y SIGOURNEY. 

I’lOXEER FEMALE POET OF AMERICA. 

RS. SIGOURNEA", was among the fir.st, and is the most voluminous 
of all the early female poets of America. In fact she has been, uj) 
to this date, one of the most prolific of all the women writers of our 
country, having published fifty-six volumes of poetry and prose, the 
first appearing in 1815, and the last in 1863, fifty-eight years later. 
Her most successful efforts are her occasional poems, which abound 
in j)assages of earnest, well expressed thought, and exhibit in their graver moods 
characteristics of a mind trained by exercise in self-knowledge and self-control. 
Her writings po.ssess energy and variety, while her wide aiul earnest symjiathy with 
all tojfics of friendship and philanthropy was always at the service of those interests. 
]Mr. Edward H. Everett in a review of Mrs. ►Sigourney’s works declared : “ They 

express with great purity and evident sincerity the tender affections which are so 
natural to the female heart and the lofty aspirations after a higher and better state 
of being which constitute the truly ennobling and elevating principles in art as well 
as in nature. Love and religion are the unvarying elements of hei- .'<ong. If her 
])Ower of expression were equal to the purity and elevation of her habits of thought 
and feeling, she would be a female Milton or a C’hristian Pindar.” Continuing he 
says : “ Though she does not inherit 

‘ 'I’lie f<ircc* and ample pinion that the Thehan eagles bear. 

Sailing with supreme dominion through the li<|uid vaults uf air,’ 

she nevertheless manages language with an ease and elegance and that refined 
felicity of exjtressiou, which is the princi])al charm in poetry. In blank ver.se she 
is very successful. The poems that she has written in this measure have much of 
the manner of Wordsworth, and may be nearly or quite as highly relished bv his 
admirers.” 

To the above eminent critical estimate of Mrs. ! 8 igournev’s writings it is unnece.s- 
sary to add further comment. The justice of the praise bestowed u|) 0 u her is 
evinced by the fact that she has acquired a wider and more jiervadiiig reputation 
than many of her more modern sisters in the realm of poesy, but it is evident that, of 
late years, her poetry has not enjoyed the popular favor which it had prior to 1860. 

Lydia Huntley was the only child of her parents, and was born at Norwich, 
Connecticut, September 1 st, 1701. Her father was a man of worth and benevohmce 
and had served in the revolutionary struggle which brought about the inde})endence 

422 
























LYDIA HUNTLEA' SIGOURNEAL 


423 


of America. Of the precocity of the cliild Duyckinck says: “Slie could read 
tiuently at the age of three and composed simple verses at seven, smooth in rhythm 
and ot an invariable religious sentiment.” iler girlhood life was quiet and unevent- 
lul. She received the best educational advantages which her neighborhood and the 
society of Madam Lathrop, the widow of Dr. Daniel Lathrop, of Hartford, could 
bestow. In 1814, when twenty-three years of age. Miss Huntley was induced to 
take a select school at Hartford, and removed to that city, where the next year, in 
1815, her first book, “ Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse,” was published. The 
])rose essays are introduced by the remark: “They are addressed to a number of 
young ladies under my care,” and the writer throughout the volume seems to have 
had her vocation as a teacher in view. In the summer of 1819 Miss Huntley be¬ 
came the wife of Mr. Charles Sigourney, an educated gentleman and a merchant 
of Hartford. In 1822 a historical poem in five cantos, entitled “Traits of the 
Aborigines,” was published, and about the same time a London publisher made a 
miscellaneous collection of her verses and published them under the title of “ Lays 
from the West,” a comj)linient of no small moment to an American poetess. Sub- 
.sequent volumes came in rapid succession, among them being “Sketch of Con¬ 
necticut Forty Years Since,” “Letters to Young Ladies” and “Letters to Mothers,” 
“ Poetry for Children,” “Zinzendorf and Other Poems,” the last named appearing 
in 1836. It introduces us to the beautiful valley of Wyoming, paying an eloquent 
trilnite to its scenery and histoi-ic fame, and especially to the missionary Zinzendorf, 
a noble self-sacrificing missionary among the Indians of the Wyoming Valley. The 
picture is a very vivid one. The poem closes with the departure of Zinzendorf 
from the then infant city of Philadelphia, extols him for his missionary labor, and 
utters a stirring exhortation to Christian union. In 1841 “ Pocahontas and Other 
Poems ” was issued by a New York ])ublisher. Pocahontas is one of her longest 
and most successful productions, containing fifty-six stanzas of nine lines each, 
opening with a jiicturc of the vague and shadowy repose of nature as her imagina¬ 
tion conceived it in the condition of the now world prior to its discovery. The 
landing at Jamestown and the subsequent events that go to make up the thrilling story 
of Pocahontas follow in detail. This is said to be the best of the many poetical 
comjiositions of which the famous daughter of Powhatan has been the subject. 

In 1840 Mrs. Sigourney made a tour of Europe, and on her return in 1842 pub- 
lishetl a volume of recollections in prose and poetry of famous and picturesque 
scenes and hospitalities received. The title of the book was “Pleasant Memories 
of Pleasant Lands.” During her stay in Europe there were also published two 
volumes of her works in London, and tokens of kindness and esteem greeted the 
author from various distinguished sources. Among others was a splendid diamond 
bi-acelet from the Queen of France. Other volumes of her works appeared in 1846 
and 1848. Prominent among the last works of her life was “The Faded Hope,” a 
touching and beautiful memento of her severe bereavment in the death of her only 
son, which occurred in 1850. “Past Meridian” is also a graceful volume of prose 
sketches. 

IMrs. Sigourney died at Hartford, Connecticut, June 10, 1865, when seventy-three 
years of age. 


424 


LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 


COLUMBUS. 


T. STEPHEN’S cloistered hall was proud i 
In learnin<r's pomp that day, ; 

j For there a robed and stately crowd j 
Pressed on in long array. 

A mariner with simple chart 
Confronts that conclave high, 

While strong ambition stirs his heart, 

And burning thoughts of wonder part 
From lips and sparkling eye. 

What hath he said ? With frowning face, 

In whispered to.ics they speak, j 

And lines upon their tablets trace, I 

Which flush each ashen cheek; 

The Intjuisition's mystic doom 
Sits on their brows severe. 

And bursting forth in visioned gloom, 

Sad heresy from burning tomb 
Groans on the startled ear. 


Courage, thou Genoese ! Old Time 
Thy splendid dream shall crown, 

Yon Western Hemisphere sublime. 

Where unshorn forests frown, 

The awful Andes’ cloud-wrapt brow, 

The Indian hunter’s bow, 

Bold streams untamed by helm or prow, 
And rocks of gold and diamonds, thou 
To thankless Spain shalt show. 

Courage, World-finder ! Thou hast need I 
In Fates’ unfolding scroll. 

Dark woes, and ingrate wrongs I read. 
That rack the noble soul. 

On ! on ! Creation’s secrets probe, 

Then drink thy cup of scorn. 

And wrapped in Caesar's robe, 

Sleep like that master of the globe, 

All glorious,—yet forlorn. 



THE ALPINE FLOWERS. 


EEK dwellers mid yon terror stricken cliffs ! 
With brows so pure, and incense breathing 
lips. 

Whence are ye ? Did some white winged 
messenger 

On Mercy’s missioTis trust your timid germ 
To the cold cradle of eternal snows ? 

Or, breathing on the callous icicles. 

Did them with tear drops nur.se ye ?— 

—Tree nor shrub 

Dare that drear atmosphere ; no polar pine 
Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand. 

Leaning your cheeks against the thick ribbed ice, 
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him 


Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste 
Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils 
O’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge 
Of 3 'awning gulfs, o’er which the headlong plunge 
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up. 

And marks ye in your placid loveliness— 

Fearless, yet fraO—and, clasping his chill hands, 
Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pomp 
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky. 

And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe. 

He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, 
Inhales your spirit from the frost winged gale 
And freer dreams of heaven. 



NIAGARA. 


I LOW on, for ever, in thy glorious robe 
! Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on 
j T’^nfathomed and resistless. God hath set 
His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud 
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give 
Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him 
Eternally—bidding the lip of man 
Keep silence—and upon thy rocky altar pour 
Incense of awe struck praise. Ah ! who can dare 
To lift the insect trump of earthly hope. 


Or love, or sorrow, mid the peal sublime 
Of th}^ tremendous h^’mn ? Even Ocean shrinks 
Back from thy brotherhood : and all his waves 
Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem 
To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall 
His wearied billows from their vexing play. 

And lull them to a cradle calm ; but thou, 

With everlasting, undecajing tide. 

Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars, 
When first they sang o’er j’oung Creation’s birth, 














LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 


425 


Heard thy deep anthem ; and those wrecking fires, 
That wait the archangel’s signal to dissolve 
This solid earth, shall find Jehovah’s name 
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears, 

Of thine unending volume. Every leaf. 

That lifts itself within thy wide domain. 

Doth gather greenness from thy living spray. 

Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo ! yon birds 
Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing 
Amid thy mist and foam. ’Tis meet for them 
To touch thy garment’s hem, and lightly stir 
The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath. 

For they may .sport unharmed amid the cloud, 

Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven. 


Without reproof. But as for us, it seems 
Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak 
Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint 
Thy glorious features with our pencil’s point. 
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song. 

Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul 
A wondering witness of thy majesty. 

But as it presses with delirious joy 
To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step, 
And tame its rapture, with the humbling view 
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand 
In the dread presence of the Invisible, 

As if to answer to its God through thee. 


DEATH OF AN INFANT. 


EATH found strange beauty on that polished 
brow 

And dashed it out. There was a tint of 
rose 

On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice 
And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes 
There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt 
Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence 
Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound 


The silken fringes of those curtaining lids 
Forever. There had been a murmuring sound 
With which the babe would claim its mother’s ear, 
Charming her even to tears. The Spoiler set 
His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile 
So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow. 

Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal 
The signet ring of heaven. 



A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD’S GRAVE. 


BUTTERFLY basked on a baby’s grave. 
Where a lily had chanced to grow ; 

“ Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye. 
When she of the blue and sparkling eye 
Must sleep in the churchyard low ?” 



Then it lightly soared through the sunny air. 

And spoke from its shining track : 

“ I was a worm till I won my wings. 

And she whom thou mourn’st like a seraph sings, 
Would,St thou call the blest one back ?” 












q ) 

1 


xtx X+A xV xtx^ x+x xtx x+x, 



15 



ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 

AUTHOR OF “ THE SINLESS CHILD.” 

r was in tlie year 1841 that a poetic Romance of several episodes, 
written in ballad style and entitled “ The Sinless Child,” was pub¬ 
lished in the Southern Literary Messenger and brought its author, a 
woman of thirty-five years, into general^ prominence, and gained for 
her an enviable position which she ever after maintained and forti¬ 
fied with a series of the finest sonnets which the literature ot our 
country atibrds. “ Her productions,” says Reade, “ are characterized rather by a 
passionate and lofty imagination, than by fancy, and a subtle vein of philosophy 
more than sentiment, though in the latter she is by no means deficient.” 

The maiden name of this lady was Prince. She is descended from old Puritan 
stock on both sides, and was born in Cumberland, near Portland, Maine, on the 
twelfth day of August, 1806. At an early age Miss Prince was married to Mr. 
Seba Smith, a newspaper editor whom she assisted in his editorial work. Mr. 
Smith, himself, was a man of considerable literary attainment, who, under the norn 
de plume of “ Jack Downing,” obtained a national reputation. He is also the 
author of “ Powhattan ; a metrical romance,” and several shorter poems which 
appeared in the periodicals of the day. His magazine tales and essays were col¬ 
lected in 1850 and published under the title of “ Down East.” 

Like most young women writers of that day, INIrs. Smith contributed her early 
jiroductions to various periodicals, anonymously. It was not until her husband 
suffered business disaster that she commenced the open profession of authorship as a 
means of support for her family. Her first published work “ Riches AVithout 
Wings” appeared in 1838; “The Sinless Child and other poems” was collected 
and issued in book form in New York, in 1841. In 1842, Mrs. Smith and her 
husband removed to New York where they have afterwards resided and the same 
year she published a novel entitled “ The AYestern Captive ” and also a fanciful 
prose tale “ The Salamander; a Legend for Christmas.” 

Mrs. Smith is also the author of “ The Roman Tribute, a tragedy in five acts,” 
founded on the exemption of Constantinople from destruction by a tribute paid by 
Tlieodosius to the conquering general, Attila. She is also the author of a tragedy 
entitled “ Jacob Leisler,” which is founded upon a well known dramatic incident 
of the colonial history of New York. Both of these plays enjoyed in their day 
popular favor iqion the stage. In 1847, she published “Woman and her needs,” 
and in 1852, “ Hints on Dress and Beauty.” Subsequent to these came “ The Bald 

426 
































ELIZABETH OAKK< 


427 


Eagle : or tlie last of the Kaiiiapaugiis ; ” “ The News Boy ; ” “ Sagamor of Saco 
“ The Two Wives ; ” “ Kitty Howard’s Journal,” and “ liestiny, a Tragedy.” 

Besides the above voliiines, Mrs. Smith was the author of much fugitive veise 
and was also a liberal contributor of the current magazines of her day. The 
varied and })eculiar merits of this author will apjiear to the reader of her writings, 
who must be impressed that in the drama, in the sonnet and in miscellaneous poems 
of imagination and fancy, she has vindicated her right to a j)lace among the tirst 
j)oets of her sex, while her prose writings, though not largely read at this time, are 
characterized by the same subtle insight, analysis and delicacy of treatment which 
mark her poetry. 


EXTRACTS FROM “TtlE SINLESS CHILD.” 


It IS difficult to select from a poem of which tlie parts make one harmonious whole ; but the history of 
“The Sinless Child ” is illustrated all through with panel pictures which are scarcely lessetfective when sep¬ 
arated from their series than when combined, and the reader will be gratified with a few of those which 
serve to exhibit the author’s graceful play of fancy, and the pure vein of poetic sentiment as well as her 
manner and style in treating this masterpiece of its author. 



THE STEP-MOTHER. 
POU speak of Hubert’s second wife, 

A lofty dame and bold ; 

I like not her forbidding air. 

And forehead high and cold. 

The orphans have no cause for grief, 

She dare not give it now. 

Though nothing but a ghostly fear 
Her heart of pride could bow. 


(FKOM '-THE SINLESS CHILD.”) 

What boots it that no other eye 
Beheld the shade appear ? 

The guilty lady's guilty soul 
Beheld it plain and clear ! 

It slowly glides within the room, 

I And sadly looks around— 

And stooping, ki.ssed her daughter’s cheek 
With lips that gave no sound ! 


One night the boy his mother called • 
They heard him weeping say— 

“ Sweet mother, ki.ss poor Eddy’s cheek. 
And wipe his tears away!” 

Red grew the lady’s brow with rage, 
And yet she feels a strife 
Of anger and of terror too. 

At thought of that dead wife. 


Then softly on the stepdame’s arm 
She laid a death-cold hand. 

Yet it hath scorched within the fle.sh 
Like to a burning brand ; 

And gliding on with noiseless foot. 
O’er winding stair and hall, 

She neai-s the chamber where is heard 
Her infant s trembling call. 


Wild roars the wind, the lights burn blue. 
The watch-dog howls with fear; 

Loud neighs the steed from out the stall: 

What from is gliding near ? 

No latch is raised, no step is heard, 

But a phantom fills the space— 

A sheeted spectre from the dead, 

With cold and leaden face ! 


She .smoothed the pillow where he lay. 
She warmly tucked the bed, 

She wiped his teai-s, and stroked the curls 
That clustered round his head. 

The child, care.ssed, unknowing fear, 
Hath nestled him to rest; 

The mother folds her wings beside— 
The mother from the blest! 


GTL\RI)IAN ANGELS. 

downy pinion they enfold 
The heart surcharged with wo, 
nd fan with balmy wing the eye 
Whence floods of sorrow flow ; 

They bear, in golden censers up. 

That sacred gift a tear— 

By which is registered the griefs 
Hearts may have suffered here. 


(from THE SINLESS CHILD.”) 

No inward pang, no yearning love 
Is lost to human hearts— 

No anguish that the sjnrit feels. 
When bright-winged Hope departs. 
Though in the mystery of life 
Discordant powers prevail; 

That life itself be weariness. 

And sympath}' may fail: 











428 


ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 


Yet all becomes a discipline, 

To lure us to the sky; 

And angels bear the good it brings 
With fostering care on high. 

Though human hearts may weary grow, 
And sink to toil-spent sleep. 

And we are left in solitude 
And agony to weep: 


Yet they with ministering zeal 
The cup of healing bring, 

And bear our love and gratitude 
Away, on heavenward wing; 

And thus the inner life is wrought. 
The blending earth and heaven—• 
The love more earnest in its glow 
Where much has been forgiven! 


THE BKOOK. 


HITHER away, thou merry Brook, 
Whither away so fast, 

With dainty feet through the meadow 
green, 

And a smile as you hurry past ? ” 

The Brook leaped on in idle mirth. 

And dimpled with saucy glee; 

The daisy kissed in lovingness, 

And made with the willow free. 

I heard its laugh adown the glen. 

And over the rocky steep. 

Away where the old tree's roots were bare 
In the waters dark and deep; 

The sunshine flashed upon its face. 

And played with flickering leaf— 

Well pleased to dally in its path, 

Though the tarrying were brief. 

“ Now stay thy feet, oh restless one, 

Where droops the spreading tree. 

And let thy liquid voice reveal 
Thy .story unto me.” 

The flashing pebbles lightly rung. 

As the gushing mu.sic fell, 

The chiming music of the brook. 

From out the woody dell. 

“ My mountain home was bleak and high, 

A rugged spot and drear, 

With searching wind and raging storm. 

And moonlight cold and clear. 

I longed for a greeting cheery as mine. 

For a fond and answering look 
But none were in that solitude 
To bless the little brook. 

“ The blended hum of pleasant sounds 
Came up from the vale below. 

And I wished that mine were a lowly lot. 

To lapse, and sing as I go; 

That gentle things, with loving eyes, 

.\long my path should glide. 

And blossoms in their loveliness 
Come nestling to my side. 


“ I leaped me down: my rainbow robe 
Hung shivering to the sight, 

And the thrill of freedom gave to me 
New impulse of delight. 

A joyous welcome the sunshine gave. 

The bird and the swaying tree ; 

The spear-like grass and blossoms start 
With joy at sight of me. 

“ The swallow comes with its bit of clay, 
When the busy Spring is here. 

And twittering bears the moistened gift 
A nest on the eaves to rear; 

The twinkling feet of flock and herd 
Have trodden a path to me. 

And the fox and the squirrel come to drink 
In the shade of the alder-tree. 

“ The sunburnt child, with its rounded foot, 
Comes hither with me to play. 

And I feel the thrill of his lightsome heart 
As he dashes the merry spray. 

I turn the mill with answering glee, 

As the merry spokes go round. 

And the gray rock takes the echo up. 
Rejoicing in the sound. 

“ The old man bathes his scattered locks, 
And drops me a silent tear— 

For he sees a wrinkled, careworn face 
Look up from the waters clear. 

Then I sing in his ear the very song 
He heard in years gone by; 

The old man’s heart is glad again. 

And a joy lights up his eye.” 

Enough, enough, thou homily brook ! 

I’ll treasure thy teachings well. 

And I will yield a heartfelt tear 
Thy crystal drops to swell; 

Will bear like thee a kindly love 
For the lowly things of earth, 
Remembering still that high and pure 
Is the home of the spirit’s birth. 










LUCY LARCOM. 

AUTHOR OF “HANNAH BINDING SHOES.” 

AI) we visited the cotton mills of Lowell, Massachusetts, sixty vears 
ago, we perhaps would not have noticed anything peculiar or differ- 
j ent from other girls in the busy little body known as Lucy Larcom. 
She had left school in her early teens to help support the family by 
serving as an ordinary operative in a cotton factory. A"et this is 
where Lucy Larcom did her first work; and to the experiences she 
gained there can be traced the foundation of the literature—both prose and poetry 
—with which she has delighted and encouraged so many readers. 

Lucy Larcom was born in Beverly, Massachusetts, in 1826. Her father, a sea 
captain, died while she was a child, and her mother removed with her several chil¬ 
dren to Lowell, Massachusetts. For a while Lucy attended the public schools and 
at the age of ten years showed a talent for writing verses. In the cotton mill, she 
tells us, her first work was “dofiRng and re]dacing the bobbins in the machine. 
Next,” she says, “I entered the spinning-room, then the dressing-i’oom, where I had 
a place beside pleasant windows looking toward the river. Later I was promoted 
to the cloth-room, where I had fewer hours of confinement, without the noisy 
machinery, and it was altogether neater.” The last two years, of her eight years’ work 
in the mill, she served as book-keeper, and, during her leisure hours, pursued her 
studies in mathematics, grammar and English and German literature. 

The female operatives in the Lowell mills published a little paper entitled 
“Offering,” and it was to this that Miss Larcom contributed her first literary pro¬ 
duction, which was in the shape of a poem entitled “The River;” and many of 
her verses and essays, both grave and gay, may be found in the old files of this 
paper. ’ Her first volume, “ Similitudes,” was compiled from essays which appeared 
originally in “Offering.” Since then her name has found an honored place among 
the women writers of America. Among her early and best poems are “Hannah 
Binding Shoes ” and “The Rose Enthroned,” the latter being Miss Larcom’s first 
contribution to the “Atlantic Monthly.” She did not sign her name to the contri¬ 
bution and it was of such merit that one of the reviewers attributed it to the poet 
Emerson. Both Mr. Lowell, the editor of “The Atlantic Monthly,” and the poet, 
Whittier, to whose papers she also contributed, praised her ability. Miss Larcom 
studied at Monticello Female Seminary, Illinois, and afterwards taught in some of 
the leading female schools in her native State. In 1859 appeared her book entitled 
“Ships in the Mist and Other Stories,” and in 1866 was published “Breathings of 

429 
















, 430 


Ll’CY LAKCOM. 


a Better Life.” From 1866 to 1874 slie was editor of “Our Young Folks,” and in 
1875 “An Idyl of Work, a Story in Verse,” appeared. In 1880 “Wild Roses of 
Cape Ann and (Jtlier Poems” was published, and in 1881 “Among Lowell Mill 
Girls” appeared. In 1885 her })oetic*al works were gathered and published in one 
volume. Of late, Miss Larcom’s wi-itings have assumed deeply religious tones in 
which the faith of her whole life hnds ample expression. This characteristic is 
strongly noticeable in “Reckonings” (1886), and es})ecially so in her last two books 
“As It Is In Heaven” (1891) and “The Unseen Friend” (1892), both of which 
embody her matiirest thought on matters concerning the spiritual life. 

One of the most admirable characteristics of Miss Larcom’s life and lier writings 
is the marked spirit of philanthropy pervading every thing she did. She was in 
sentiment and jiractically the working woman’s friend. She came from among them, 
had shared their toils, and the burning and consuming impulse of her life was to 
better their condition. In this, she imitated the spirit of Him, who, being lifted up, 
Avould draw all men after Him. 


HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 


OOR lone Hannah, 

Sitting at the window, binding shoes! 
Faded, wrinkled, 

Sitting stitching, in a mournful muse ! 
Bright-eyed beauty once was she. 
When the bloom was on the tree: 
Spring and winter 

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

Not a neighbor 
Passing nod or answer will refuse 
To her whisper, 

“ Is there from the fishers any news ? ” 

Oh, her heart's adrift with one 
On an endless voyage gone ! 

Night and morning 

Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 

Fair young Hannah 
Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos; 

Hale and clever. 

For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
May-day skies are all aglow. 

And the waves are laughing so ! 

For the wedding 

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 


]M ay is passing: 

Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos. 

Hannah shudders. 

For the mild south-wester mischief brews. 
Round the rocks of Marblehead, 

Outward bound, a schooner s})ed : 

Silent, lonesome, 

Hannah’s at the window, binding .shoes. 

Tis November. 

Now no tears her wa.sted cheek bedews. 

From Newfoundland 
Not a sail returning will she lose. 
Whispering hoarsely. “ Fisherman. 

Have you. have j-ou heard of Ben?” 

()ld with watching. 

Hannah's at the window, binding .shoes. 
Twenty winters 

Bleach and tear the ragged .shore she views. 

Twenty seasons;— 

Never has one brought her an}’ news. 

Still her dim eyes silently 
Chase the white .sail o’er the sea: 
Hopeless, faithless, 

Hannah’s at the window, binding .shoes. 



\ 

















Al.ICE AND PH0P:BE CARY. 


THE SLSTER SPIRITS OF POESY.” 


r Avoulcl be difficult to treat the two poetic Cary sisters separately. 
Their work began, progressed through life and practically ended 
together. Few persons have written under the circumstances which 
at first appeared so disadvantageous. They had neither education 
nor literary friends, nor was their early lot cast in a region of literary 
culture—for they were reared in Cincinnati, Ohio, during the forma¬ 
tive jieriod of that Western country. But surely in the wild hills and valleys of 
their native West, they found 



“ Tongues in trees, books in running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.” 


Alice Cary was born in Mount Healthy, near Cincinnati, April 20, 1820, and 
her sister Phoebe at the same place four years later. The two sisters studied at home 
together and, when eighteen years old, Alice began to write poems and sketches of 
rural life under the 7iom de plume of Patty Lee, which attracted considerable atten¬ 
tion and displayed an ability which elicited encouragement from the editors of the 
periodicals to which she contributed. In the mean time, Phoebe Cary, following her 
sister’s example, began to contribute, and, in 1850, the two sisters published their 
first volume of poems in Philadelphia. A volume of prose sketches entitled 
“Clover Nook, or Recollections of our Neighborhood in the West,” by Alice Cary 
followed in 1851. In 1852, the Cary sisters removed to New York city where they 
chiefly resided during the remainder of their lives, returning occasionally to their 
early farm home. For some years they held weekly receptions in New York, which 
were attended by leading artistic and literary people. They earned by their pens— 
pure and womanly pens—suflicient to provide a competence for all their wants. 
Tliey gathered a library, rich in standard works, to gratify their refined tastes and 
did much to relieve the needy with their charity. In 1853, Alice Cary issued a 
second series of her “Clover Nook Papers” and a third gleaning from the same 
field appeared in 1855, entitled “Clover Nook Children,” for the benefit of her more 
youthful readers. During the prolific years, from 1852 to 1855, she also })ublished 
“Lyra and other Poems,” followed by “Hagar, a Story of To-day,” “Married, Not 
Mated,” and “Hollywood,” a collection of poems. In 1854, Phoebe Cary, also, 
published “Poems and Parodies.” In 1859 appeared her “Pictures of Country 
Life,” a series of tales, and “The Bishop’s Son,” a novel. In 1867, appeared her 

431 




















432 


ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY. 


“Snowberries,” a book for young folks. In 1866, Alice also published a volume 
entitled “Ballads, Lyrics and Hymns,” which is a standard selection of her poetry 
and contains some of the sweetest minor poems in the language. Alice’s “The 
Lover’s Diary” appeared in 1868. It begins with the poem “Dreamland” and 
ranges with a series of exquisite lyrics of love through all the phases of courtship 
to married life. This was the last of her works published during her lifetime. 
During the same year (1868), Phoebe published the “Poems of Faith, Hope and 
Love,” a wortiiy companion volume to her sister’s works, and in 1869 she aided her 
pastor, Chas. F. Deems, in editing “Hymns for All Christians.” 

In comparing the two sisters, it is noticeable that the poems of Alice are more 
thoughtful and more melodiously expressed. They are also marked with a stronger 
originality and a more vivid imagination. In disposition, Alice was pensive and 
tender, while Phoebe was witty and gay. Alice was strong in energy and patience 
and bore the chief responsibility of their household, allowing her sister, who was 
less passive and feminine in temperament, to consult her moods in wudting. The 
disparity in the actual intellectual productions of the two sisters in the same 
number of years is the result, not so much of the mental equality as of the superior 
energy, industry, and patience of the elder. 

The considerate love and delicacy with which Alice and Phoebe Cary treated 
each other plainly indicated that they were one in spirit through life, and in death 
they were not long separated. Alice died at her home in New York City, February 
12, 1871, in her fifty-first year. Phoebe, in sorrow over this bereavement, wrote 
the touching verses entitled “Light,” and in confidence said to a friend: “Alice, 
when she was here, always absorbed me, and she absorbs me still. I feel her con¬ 
stantly drawing me.” And so it seemed in reality, for, on the thirty-first day of 
July, six months after Alice Cary was laid to rest in Greenwood Cemetery, New 
York, Phoebe died at Newport, Bhode Island, whence her remains were removed 
and laid by her sister’s side. 

The two kindred sisters, so long associated on earth, were re-united. The 
influence they have left behind them, embalmed in their hymns of praiseful worship, 
their songs of love and of noblest sentiment, and their stories of happy childhood 
and innocent manhood and womanhood, will long remain to bless the earth and con¬ 
stitute a continual incense to their memory. 

Besides the published works named above, both Alice and Phoebe left at their 
death uncollected poems enough to give each name two added volumes. Alice also 
left the manuscript of a completed novel. ' 


ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY. 


433 


PICTURES OF MEMORY, (alice carv.) 


MONO the beautiful picture.s 

That hang on Memory's wall, 

Is one of a dim old forest, 

That seemeth best of all: 

Not for its gnarled oaks olden. 

Dark with the mistletoe; 

Not for the violets golden 

That sprinkle the vale below ; 

Not for the milk-white lilies, 

That lead from the fragrant hedge, 
Co({ueting all day with the sunbeams, 

And stealing their golden edge ; 

Not for the vines on the upland 
Where the bright red berries rest. 

Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip. 
It seemed to me the best. 

I once had a little brother, 

AVith eyes that were dark and deep— 

In the lap of that old dim forest 
He lieth in peace asleep : 



Light as the down of the thistle, 

Free as the winds that blow. 

We roved there the beautiful summers, 
Tlie summers of long ago ; 

But his feet on the hills grew weary. 
And, one of the autumn eves, 

I made for my little brother 
A bed of the yellow leaves. 

Sweetly his pale arms folded 
My neck in a meek embrace. 

As the light of immortal beauty 
Silently covered his face: 

And when the arrows of sunset 
Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 
lie fell, in his saint-like beauty. 

Asleep by the gates of light. 
Therefore, of all the pictures 
That hang on Memory’s wall, 

The one of the dim old forest 
Seemeth the best of all. 


NOBILITY. (ALICE CARY.) 



ILDA is a lofty lady, 

A'ery proud is she— 

I am but a simple herdsman 
Dwelling by the sea. 

Hilda hath a spacious palace. 

Broad, and white, and high ; 
Twenty good dogs guard the portal— 
Never house had I. 


Hilda from her palace windows 
Looketh down on me. 

Keeping with my dove-brown o.ven 
By the silver sea. 

AVhen her dulcet harp .she playeth, 
AVild birds singing nigh. 

Cluster, listening, by her white hands— 
But my reed have I. 


Hilda hath a thousand meadows— 
Boundless forest lands; 

She hath men and maids for service— 

I have but my hands. 

The sweet summer's ripest roses 
Hilda’s cheeks outvie— 

Queens have paled to see her beauty— 
But my beard have 1. 


I am but a simple herdsman, 

AA'’ith nor house nor lands ; 

She hath men and maids for service— 
I have but my hands. 

And yet what are all her crimsons 
To my sunset sky— 

AA’’ith my free hands and my manhood 
Hilda’s peer am I. 


THE GRAY SAYAN, (alice cary.) 


{From the Poetical Works of Alice and Phcebe Cary, 1876.) 


tell me, sailor, tell me true, 

A-sailing with your ship ? ” 

The sailor’s eyes were dim with dew,— 
“ Y’our little lad, your Elihu ? ” 

He said with trembling lip,— 

“ AA’hat little lad ? what ship ? ” 

28 


“ AVhat little lad ! as if there could be 
Another such an one as he ! 

AV^hat little lad, do you say ? 
AA'^hy, Elihu, that took to the sea 
The moment I put him off my knee! 

It was just the other day 
The (Jray Sican sailed away.” 













434 


ALK'E AND PHOEBE CARY. 


“ The other day ? ” the sailor’s eyes 
Stood open with a great surprise,— 

“ 'I'he other day ? the Swan ? ’’ 

His heart began in his throat to rise. 

“ Aye, aye, sir, here in the cupboard lies 
The jacket he had on.” 

“ And so your lad is gone ? ” 

“ Gone with the Swan.” “ And did she stand 
With her anchor clutching hold of tlie sjjiid. 

For a month, and never stir ? ” 

“ Why, to be sure ! I’ve seen from the land. 
Like a lover kissing his lady’s hand, 

The wild sea kissing her,— 

A sight to remember, sir.” 

“ But, my good mother, do you know 
All this was twenty years ago ? 

I stood on the (rray Swanks deck, 

And to that lad I sa%v you throw. 

Taking it off. as it might be, so! 

The kerchief from your neck.” 

“ Aye. and he'll bring it back ! ” 

“ And did the little lawless lad. 

That has made you sick and made you sad. 

Sail with the Grai/ Swan's crew? ” 

“ Lawless! the man is going mad ! 


The best boy mother ever had,— 

Be sure he .sailed with the crew ! 

What would you have him do? ” 

“ And he has never written a line, 

Nor sent you word, nor made you sign 
To .say he was alive ! ” 

“ Hold ! if ’twas wrong, the wrong is uiine; 
Besides, he may be in the brine. 

And could he write from the grave ? 

Tut, man, what would you have ? ” 

Gone twenty years—along, long cruise,—- 
Twas wicked thus your love to abuse; 

But if the lad still live. 

And come back home, think you can 
Forgive him ? ” “ .Miserable man. 

You're mad as the sea,—you rave,— 
What have I to forgive ? ” 

The sailnr twitched his shirt so blue. 

And from within his bosom drew 
'I'he kerchief. She was wild. 

“ My God ! my Father ! is it true? 

My little lad, my Elihu ! 

My blessed boy, my child ! 

.My dead, my living child! ” 


MEMORIES.* 

(PIIOEBE CARY.) 

She loved aie, but she left me. 


K.MORTES on memories! to my soul again 
'fhere come such dreams of vanished 
love and bliss 

That my wrung heart, though long inured 
to pain, 

Finks with the fulness of its wretchedness: 

Thou, dearer far than all the world beside ! 

'fhou. who didst listen to my love’s first vow— 
Once 1 had fondly hoped to call thee bride: 

Is the dream over ? comes that awakening now? 
And is this hour of wretchedness and tears 
The only guerdon for my wasted years ? 

And I did love thee—when by stealth we met 
In the sweet evenings of that summer time. 

Win )se pleasant memory lingers with me yet. 

As the remembrance of a better clime 


Might haunt a fallen angel. And oh, thou— 
'fhou who didst turn away and seek to bind 
Thy heart from breaking—thou hast felt ere now 
A heart like thine o’ermastereth the mind ; 
Affection’s power is stronger than thy will— 

Ah, thou didst love me, and thou Invest me still. 

My heart could never yet be taught to move 
With the calm even )*ul.ses that it should : 
'ruining away from those that it should love. 

And loving whom it .should not, it hath wot ed 
Beauty forbidden—I may not forget; 

And thou, oh thou canst never cease to feel; 
But time, which hath not changed affection yet, 
j Hath taught at least one lesson—to conceal; 
So none but thou, who see my .smiles, shall know 
' The silent bleeding of the heart below. 



Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin .t Co. 










LOUTSE CHANDl.EK MOEl/rON. 


nKuleni poi't among American women stands liiglier in the estimation 
of her literary peers, or in tlie social scale than does tlie author of 
“Bedtime Stories,” “Some AVomen’s Hearts,” and “In the Gar- 
<len of Dreams,” iMrs. Moulton enjoys the tri])le distinction of 
l)eing a writer of the most popular stories for childi-en, of popular 
novels for grown people, and of some of the best poetiy which any 
woman has contributed to our literature. In herself she presents the conscientious 
})oet who writes for the })urpose of instructing and benefiting, and, at the same time, 
one whose wares are marketable and ])opular. Not a few critics have placed her 
sonnets at the head of their kind in America. Her poetry has for its main charac¬ 
teristic a constant but not a rebellious sori-ow ex])ressed with such consistent ease and 
melody tliat the reader is led on with a most pleasurable sensation from stanza to 
stanza and arises from the reading of her verses with a mellower and softer syju- 
])athy for his fellow-beings. 

Louise Chandler was born at Pomfret, Connecticut, April 5, 1885, and her educa¬ 
tion was received in that vicinity. Her first book entitled “This, That and Other 
Jk)(*ms ” appeared when she was nineteen years of age. It was a girlish miscellany 
and sold remarkably well. After its publication, she passed one year in Miss AVil- 
lanl’s Seminary at Troy, New York, and it was during her first vacation from this 
s(‘hool that she met and married the well-known Boston journalist, William Moulton, 
The next yeai- was published “Juno Clifford,” a novel, without her name attached. 
Her next publication, issued in l<S5f), was a collection of stories umler the title of 
“My Third Book.” Neither of these made a great success, and she jiublished 
nothing more until 1873, when her now famous “Bedtime Stories for Children” 
was issued and attracted much attention. She has written five volumes of bright 
tales for chihlren. In 1874 appeared “Some Women’s Hearts ” and “ Miss Eyre 
from Boston.” After this Mrs. Moulton visited Europe, and out of the memories of 
hei- foreign travel, she issued in 1881 a book entitled “Random Rambles,” and 
six years later (*ame “Ours and Our Neighbors,” a book of essays on social subjects, 
and the same year she issued two vohnnes of poems. In 1889 she published simul¬ 
taneously, in England and America, her most po})ular work, entitled “ In the 
Gai-den of Dreams,” which has ])assed through many editions with increased ])opn- 
larity. Mrs. Moulton has also edited three volumes of the poems of Philip Burke 
Marseton. 

Mrs, Moulton’s' residence has been in Boston since 1855, with the exception of 

435 























43 ^ 


LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 


sixteen consecutive summers and autumns which she passed in Europe. In London 
she is especially at home, where she lives surrounded by friends and friendly critics, 
who value both her winning personality and her literary art. IShe has been through¬ 
out her life a systematic worker, devoting a part of each day to literary laboi-. 
Aside from her books, she has done much writing for newspapers and periodicals. 
Fi'om 1870 to 1870 she was the Boston literary correspondent for the New York 
“ Tribune,” and for nearly live years she wrote a weekly letter reviewing new books 
and literary })eople for the Boston “ Sunday Herald,” the series of these letters 
closing in Hecember, 1891. 

Mrs. Moulton, while not admitting herself to be a hero worshipper, is full of 
appreciation of the great bygone names of honor, and enjoys with a keen relish the 
memory of the personal friendship she had with such immortals as Whittier, Long¬ 
fellow and Lowell, on this side of the Atlantic, and with Swdnburne, Tennyson and 
othei-s, in Europe. 


“IF THERE WERE DREAMS TO SELL.”* 


“ If there were dreams to sell, 

Wliat would you buy?”—B eddoes. 



F there were dreams to sell, 
Do I not know full well 
What I would buy ? 
Hope’s dear delusive sj)ell, 
Its happy tale to tell— 
Joy’s fleeting sigh. 


T would be glad once more— 
Slip through an open door 
Into Life’s glory— 
Keep what I spent of yore, 
Find what I lost before— 
Hear an old story. 


I would be young again— 
Youth’s madding bliss and bane 
I would recapture— 
Though it were keen with pain, 
All else seems void and vain 
To that fine rapture. 


As it of old befell, 

Breaking Death’s frozen spell, 
Love should draw nigh :— 
If there were dreams to sell, 

Do I not know too well 
What I would buy? 


WIFE TO HTTSBAND.* 



HEN I am dust, and thou art (piick and 
glad, 

Bethink thee, sometimes, what good days 
we had. 

What happy days, beside the shining seas, 

Or by the twilight fire, in careless ease, 

Reading the rhymes of some old poet lover. 

Or whispering our own love-story over. 


When thou hast mourned for me a seemly space. 
And set another in my vacant place. 

Charmed with her brightness, trusting in her truth. 
Warmed to new life by her beguiling youth, 

Be happy, dearest one, and surely know 
I would not have thee thy life’s joys forego. 


Yet think of me sometimes, where, cold and still, 
I lie, who once was swift to do thy will. 

Whose lips so often answered to thy kiss. 

Who, dying, blessed thee for that bygone bliss: 

I pray thee do not bar my presence quite 
From thy new life, so full of new delight. 


I would not vex thee, waiting by thy side; 

My presence should not chill thy fair young bride ; 
Only bethink thee how alone I lie: 

To die and be forgotten were to die 
A double death ; and I deserve of thee 
Some grace of memory, fair howe’er ahr be. 


Cojiyriglit, Roberts Bros. 












LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 


437 


THE LAST GOOD-BYE* 


OW shall we know it is the last good-bye? 
The skies will not be darkened in that 
hour, 

No sudden light will fall on leaf or 
flower, 

No single bird will hush its careless cry, 

And you will hold my hands, and smile or sigh 
J ust as before. Perchance the sudden tears 



In your dear eyes will answer to my fears ; 

But there will come no voice of prophecy; 

No voice to whisper, “ Now, and not again. 

Space for last words, last kisses, and last prayer. 
For all the wild, unmitigated pain 
Of those who, parting clasp hands with despair.” 

“ Who knows?” we say, but doubt and fear remain. 
Would any choose to part thus unaware? 


NEXT YEAR. 


HE lark is singing gaily in the meadow, the 
sun is rising o’er the dark blue hills ; 
But she is gone, the music of whose talk¬ 
ing was sweeter than the voice of 
summer rills. 

Sometimes T see the bluebells of the forest, and think 
of her blue eyes ; 

Sometimes I seem to hear the rustle of her garments : 
’tis but the wind’s low sighs. 

I see the sunbeams trail along the orchard, and fall 
in thought to tangling up her hair ; 

And sometimes round the sinless lips of childhood 
breaks forth a smile, such as she used to wear; 


But never any pleasant thing, around, above us, 
seems to me like her love— 

More lofty than the skies that bend and brighten o’er 
us. more constant than the dove. 

She walks no more beside me in the morning; .she 
meets me not on any summer eve ; 

But once at night I heard a low voice calling—Oh, 
faithful friend, thou hast not long to grieve !” 

Next year, when larks are singing gaily in the meadow, 
I shall not hear their tone; 

But she in the dim, far-off" country of the stranger, 
will walk no more alone. 



MY MOTHER’S PICTURE. 

(from “ IN THE GARDEN OP DREAMS.”) 


W shall I here her placid picture paint 
With touch that shall be delicate, yet sure ? 
Soft hair above a brow so high and pure 
fears have not soiled it with an earthly taint, 
Needing no aureole to prove her .saint; 

I’irm mind that no temptation could allure; 

Soul .strong to do, heart stronger to endure ; 


And calm, sweet lips that uttered no complaint. 

So have I seen her, in my darkest days 

And when her ow'n most sacred ties were riven. 
Walk tranquilly in self-denying ways. 

Asking for strength, and sure it would be given ; 
Filling her life with lowly prayer, high prai.se— 

So shall I see her, if we meet in heaven. 



*Coi)yright, Roberts Bros. 
























WASHINGTON IRVING. 


THP: I’lKST AMERICAN AUTHOR OF RENOWN. 


'‘'The Cervdntes of the New World." 



HE first American who openly adopted literature as a calling and suc- 
eesstiilly relied upon his pen for sup})ort was W'ashington Irying, 
and the abiding {) 0 })ularity of this author is the best guarantee of 
his ])ci'inanent [)Iaee in the world of letters. Since 1802, when 
Iryiiig begun to wi'ite, empires haye arisen and passed away; new 
arts haye been inyented and adojited, and haye j)ushed the old out 
of use; the household economy of mankind has undergone a reyolution; science lias 
learned a new dialect and forgotten the old; but the words of this chai-ming writer 
are still as bright and eyeii more I’ead by men and women to-day than when they 
came fresh from his pen and their brilliant author was not only the literary lion of 
America, but was a shining light in the circles of the old Woi’ld. The pages of 
Irying are a striking illustration of the fact that the language of the heart neyer be¬ 
comes obsolete, that Truth, and Good, and Beauty, the offspring of God, are not sub¬ 
ject to the changes which beset the empire of man, and we feel sure that Washing¬ 
ton Irying, whose works were the delight of our grandparents and parents, and are 
now contributing to our own happiness, will also be read with the same eager pleas¬ 
ure by those who come after us. 

It was on the ord of Ajiril, I78d, when the British were in possession of New 
A^ork City and George Washington was exerting his forces to driye them away, that 
young Irying was born. Like Benjamin Franklin, he was the youngest of many 
sons. His father was a Scotchman and his mother an Englishwoman, who emigrated 
to America soon after their marriage and settled in New York about the year 1770. 
The Iryings were staunch patriots and did what they could to relieye the sufferings 
of American ])risoners while the British held the city, and their son was not chris¬ 
tened until the English evacuated the town and George Washington came in and 
took possession. In her exultation over this event xMrs Irving exclaimed: “Wash¬ 
ington’s work is ended and this child shall be named after him.” Six years later, 
in 1789, George Washington took the oath of office as the first President of the 
United States, in New York, which was then the ea[)ital of the country. Shortly 
after this the Scotch servant girl with little Irving in charge, seeing the President 
on the street called out: “ Please, your honor, here’s a bairn was named after you.” 
Washington bade her bring the boy to him, and })lacing his hands on his head 
gave him his blessing. 


438 



































DISTINGUISHED ESSAYISTS AND LITERARY CRITICS. 










































.* Hirf 





• ■''i 'T^' V •'? “ 
f.r ■■<,>.■•.■ ■ '» 


T; M 










*t. 


1 •/ 




. '*' if". 

' A: "W 




s * 



VJ 


. i-* 0 

. « 

I 




^V-v - 'V.^' 


« . I 


: 


• I 


•»> • 




• 




iJ 








%. V'-/- 


!1« 


i . 


j - •• 


a. '; • -t 


iMiM ' 






« 

t. 



'- • k* - ' -i 

il,. 4 . ' ' 

■,, 'jj . f: •'•^■iT.v^/Ji.- 

*•■-.*• • * S ■' '.T ■ 

5''-%: 






V-’ 






4 


• . ■» 




.'* ' *' * f’ - • 

• • ’ri • .• t 



I i 





i4- 




• ••’••<■. -*<u m' 


•» *' [i 


•* ir _Vi • ». ■ *.**•■• 


-I. ’ 


( ■ i».- ' • - • 

'rJc. ., ' 

••-'<:■ ■. 


v^t.. 


'» ■), •* • %._'■ 

■ v>. 

^ ^ , 

• 





■» > 


- X 

.'tr 


V. 


L ^ -i i ^ : 

Kvr-J,' ’-w * «'*■. 

*“. . • I It 


•V . 







1 


I ^ 


» «p 


. •! 


*: 

‘'l) * 





^ I 



&_ra^"^*4l^ . . . 




?•*. 




v: .NX^'.snr 

V' 


.«•*. 





r, 


*4L'» ‘*^*1, 


.) 






•1' 




.Sf 


A 


'!» 



r • ‘■i 


















*v 



WASHIXGTOX IRVING. 


439 



As a. boy Irving was playful rather than studious. His delicate health prevented 
his entering college, and the educational training which he received was at sundry 
small schools, and this ceased at the age of sixteen, at which time he began to 
study law. Irving’s opportunity came in 1802, wlieii his brother. Hr. Peter 
Irving, established a daily paper, to which Washington, then only nineteen, con¬ 
tributed a series of essays under the signature of “Jonathan Oldstyie.” They were 
written in a humorous vein and met an instant success, being quoted and copied as 
far and wide as the sayings ot Penjamin Franklin’s “Poor Richard” had been fifty 
years liefore. 

In 1804 Irving’s failing health compelled him to abandon his legal studies and he 
went abroad, spending two years in Furo[)ean travel, and gathering a stock of 
material for his future writings. In 1806 he returned to New York, took up again 


SUXNYSIDE, THE HOME OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 

the study of law and was admitted to the har, but never practised the profession. 
The next year, with his brother and James K. Paulding, he started the “Salma¬ 
gundi; or, Whim-Whams and Opinions of Lancelot Langstaff. Esq.,” which was 
])ublislied fortnightly and ran through twenty numbers. This humorous magazine, 
intended by its authors only to “hit off” the go.ssij) of that day, has now become an 
amusing history of society events a century ago, and is still widely read. The next 
two years were occupied in writing his “Knickerbocker’s History of New York,” 
whicii was published in December, 1806. This was to have been the joint work of 
Washington Irving and his brother. Peter, hut the latter was called away to Europe, 
and Washington did it alone, 'fo introduce this book, Ii’ving, with genuine Yankee 
shrewdness, advertised in the newspapers some months in advance of its publication 
for an old gentleman by the name of Knickerbocker, who had .suddenly disaj)- 
]ieared, leaving behind him tlie manuscript of a hook and his hoard bill unpaid. 
It was finally "announced that his landlord had decided to publish the book in 
the hope of realizing enough ja-ofit to satisfy his claim for board against the author. 









440 


WASHINGTON IRVING. 


It jiroved to be the most readable book which had yet appeared in America and was 
received with enthusiasm by the public. Abroad it created almost as great a sensa¬ 
tion. Sir Walter Scott read it aloud to his family, and it first revealed to the critics 
of the Old World that America was to have a literature of its own. This book 
quickly brought its author both reputation and money, and with bright hopes he 
entered the business firm of his brother as a silent partner. 

During the War of 1812 Irving was editorially connected with the “Analectic 
Magazine” in Philadelphia, for which he wrote a number of articles. He wais 
stanchly patriotic throughout the war, though he deplored its existence. In 181o, 
after peace was proclaimed, he made a second voyage across the Atlantic, intending 
to remain only a short while, but the failure of his brother’s firm blasted his busi¬ 
ness hopes and necessitated his return to litei-ature. He, therefore, remained abroad 
for seventeen years, and it was in the Old Country that he w^rote his famous “Sketch 
Book,” published in parts in New York in 1819, and in book form in London in 
1820, the author receiving for the copyright four hundred pounds (nearly |2,000). 
In 1822 he jHiblished “Bracebridge Hall, or. The Humorist;” and in 1824 the “Tales 
of the Traveler.” From 1826 to 1829 Irving spent much time in Spain, where he 
gathered material for the “Life of Christopher Columbus” (1828); “Chronicles of 
the Conquest of Granada,” and “The Alhambra, or. The New^ Sketch Book,” which 
appeared in 1832. 

During the last two years of Irving’s stay abroad he w^as Secretary ot‘ the United 
States Legation at London, and on his return to America in 1832 wais received with 
great public honor. His books now brought him an adequate income, and he built 
for himself a handsome villa at Irvington, New A^ork—which he named “Sunny- 
side”—where he continued to reside until his death, wdth the excejition of four 
years (1842-46), during which time he represented the United States at the Court 
of Madrid. While residing at Sunnyside he wrote the “Tours of the Prairies” 
(1835); “Astoria” (1836); “Adventures of Captain Bonneville” (183)7). After 
his return from the Court of Spain he edited a new edition of his (*omplete works, 
issued in 1850. He also published in 1849 and 1850 “Oliver Goldsmith: a Bio¬ 
graphy,” and “Mahomet and His Successors.” From 1850 to 1859 he published 
only two books, namely, “Wolfret’s Boost and Other Papers” and the “Life of 
George Washington;” the latter issued just before his death, which occurred at 
Sunnyside, November 28, 1859. His nephew, P. H. Irving, afterwards jirepared 
the “Life and Letters of AVashington Irving” (1863), and also edited and published 
his “Spanish Papers and Other Miscellanies” (1866.) 

That Irving never married may be attributed to the fact that his fiance, Miss 
IMatilda Hoffman, a charming and beautiful girl, to whom he was devotedly attached, 
died suddenly soon after they were engaged. Ii-ving, then twenty-six, bore the 
blow like a man, but he carried the scar through life. 

The fame of Irving becomes the more resplendent when we remember that 
he was the first great pioneer in American letters. Franklin was the onlv man 
of any note who had preceded him, and his writings w’ere confined to a much 
smaller scope. It was while Bryon and Scott were leaders of English letters 
that Irving, without the advantage of a college education, went to England 
and met and associated with the greatest of English authors, issued several 


WASHIXCJTOX IRNING. 


441 


ut* his books and made good his own title to an honorable position in literature 
among them, not only leaving his impress upon English society but he created an 
illustrious following among her authors that any man should be proud of; for it is 
from Irving’s “Sketch Book” that the revival of Christmas feasts was inaugurated, 
which Dickens afterwards took up and pursued to further lengths, making Irving 
his model in more ways than is generally supposed. Sir Walter Scott and Thack¬ 
eray were his friends and admirers. The latter calls Irving the “first ambussiulor 
whom the new world of letters sent to the old.” At home Irving’s influence was 
even greater. His tales like “Rip Van Winkle” and its fellows became the first 
fruits of an abundant harvest, rich in local flavor, which later American story-tellers 
like Hawthorne, Poe, Bret Harte and Cable, all in their OAvn way, following in his 
footste})s, have gathered after him. 

The genius of Irving was not of that stalwart, rugged character which conquered 
by admiration. It rather won its way softly and by the aid of genial sentiment, 
human sympathy and pungent humor. His heart was quick to catch the sentiment, 
ami his imagination as quick to follow the thread of an incident to its most charm¬ 
ing conclusion. He it was who peopled the green nooks of “Sleepy Hollow” and 
the rocky ci’ags of the Catskills, desci-ibing landscape and character with a charm 
which no later American writer has surpassed; and it was his delicate subtlety and 
keen insight which called into being in his “Knickerbocker’s History” a civiliza¬ 
tion, giving to the legend the substance of truth, and presenting a fiction so that it 
]>assed for a fact. This is a feat which very few authors have accomplished. 

That Irving might have been a successful historian is evinced by his “Life of 
Columbus” and “Life of Washington,” in which his exhaustive inquiry into details? 
and his treatment of the same leave nothing new in the lives of these great men to 
b(‘ told; but it is on his descriptive essays, such as we find in his “Sketch Book,” 
“The Alhambra” and “Knickerbocker’s History,” that his title to enduring fame 
most securely rests. 

The poet, Lowell, in his “Fable for Critics,” thus happily characterizes Washing¬ 
ton Irving: 

*• What! Irvin"? thrice welcome warm heart and fine hiain, 

You brill" back the happiest sjiirit from Spain, 

And the "ravest sweet humor, that ever were there 
Since Cervantes met death in his "entle despair; 

Nay, don't be embarrassed, nor look so beseeching, 

I sLan’t run directly against my own jireaching. 

And having just laughed at their Raphaels and Dantes, 

(io to setting you up beside matchless Cervantes; 

But allow me to speak what I honestly feel. 

To a true poet-heart add the fun of Dick Steele, 

Throw in all of Addison, minus the chill, 

With the whole of that partnership's stock and good-will. 

Mix well, and while stirring, hum o’er, as a spell, 

The ‘ fine old Rnglish Gentleman,’ simmer it well. 

Sweeten just to your own private liking, then strain. 

That only the finest and clearest remain. 

Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives 

From the warm lazy sun loitering down through green leaves, 

And you'll find a choice nature not wholly deserving 
A name either English or Yankee—just Irving.” 



442 


WASHINGTON IRVING. 


THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 


FROM THE SKETCH BOOK. 



j’lIE sound of casual footsteps had ceased 
from the abbey. 1 could only hear, now 
and then, the distant voice of the priest 
repeating the evening service, and the faint responses 
of the choir; these paused for a time, and all was 
hushed. The stillness, the desertion and obscurity 
that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper 
and more solemn interest to the }ilace; 


For in the silent grave no conversation. 

No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father’s counsel—nothing’s heard. 
For nothing is, but all oblivion. 

Dust, and an endless darkness. 


Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ 
burst upon the ear, falling with double and redoubled 
intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of 
sound. How well do their volume and grandeur ac¬ 
cord with this mighty building! With what pomp 
do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe 
their awful harmony through these caves of death, 
and make the silent sepulchre vocal! And now they 


rise in triumph and acclamation, heaving higher and 
higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on 
sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of 
the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody; 
they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem 
to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of 
heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling 
thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it 
forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences! 
What solemn sweeping concords! It grows more 
and more dense and powerful—it fills the vast pile, 
and seems to jar the very walls—the ear is stunned— 
the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding 
up in full jubilee—it is rising from the earth to 
heaven—The very soul seems rapt away and floated 
upwards on this swelling tide of harmony ! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie 
which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire: 
the shadows of evening were gradually thickening 
round me; the monuments began to cast deeper and 
deeper gloom ; and the distant clock again gave token 
of the slowly waning day. 


BALTUS VAN TASSEL’S FARM. 



CHABOD CRANE had a soft and foolish 
heart toward the sex ; and it is not to be 
wondered at, that so tempting a morsel 
soon found favor in his eyes; more especially after 
he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old 
Baltus Van Tas.sel was a perfect picture of a thriving, 
contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is 
true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts heyond the 
boundaries of his own farm ; but within those every¬ 
thing was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He 
was .satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it; 
and ])i(]ued himself upon the hearty abundance, 
rather than the style in which he lived. His strong¬ 
hold was .situated on the banks of the Hudson, in 
one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which 
the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great 
elm-tree spread its branches over it, at the foot of 
which buV)bled up a spring of the softest and sweetest 


water, in a little well formed of a barrel; and then 
stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neigh¬ 
boring brook, that bubbled along among alders and 
dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhou.se was a vast 
barn, that might have served for a church ; every 
window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth 
with the treasures of the farm ; the flail was busily 
resounding within it from morning to night; swallows 
and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; 
and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, 
as if watching the weather, some with their heads 
under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and 
others swelling and cooing, and bowing about their 
dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. 
Sleek, unwielding porkers were grunting in the repose 
and abundance of their pens ; whence sallied forth, 
now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuflf 
the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were 









WASHIXGTOX IIIVIXG. 


443 


riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of 
ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through 
the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, like 
ill-tempered housewives, wnth their ])eevish, discon¬ 
tented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant 
cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a flue 
gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and crowing 
in the ))ride and gladness of his heart—sometimes 
tearing up the earth with his leet, and then gener¬ 
ously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and 
children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had 
discovered. 

The pedagogue’s mouth watered, as he looked upon 
this sumptuous promise of winter fare. In his de¬ 
vouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every 
roasting-pig running about with a pudding, in his 
belly and an aj)ple in his mouth ; the pigeons were 
snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in 
with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in 
their owm gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, 
like snug married couples, with a decent competency 
of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved oiit the 
future sleek side of bacon and juicy relishing ham ; 
not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with 


its gizard under its wing, and, peradventure, a neck¬ 
lace of savory sausages; and even bright chanticleer 
himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with 
uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which liLs 
chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as 
he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow- 
lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, 
and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with 
ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of 
3'an Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel, who 
was to inherit those domains, and his imagination e.K- 
panded with the idea, how they might be readily 
turned into cash, and the money invested in immense 
tracts of wild land and shingle palaces in the wilder¬ 
ness. 

Nay, his busy fanciy already realized his hopes, 
and ])resented to him the blooming Katrina, with 
a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a 
wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and 
kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld him.self be¬ 
striding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, set¬ 
ting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows 
where. 


COLUMBUS Ad 

(from “ LIFE C 

HE letter of Columbus to the Spanish mon- 
archs had produced the greatest sensation 
at court. The event he announced was 
considered the most e.vtraordinary of their prosperous 
reign, and. following so close upon the conquest of 
Granada, was pronounced a signal mark of divine 
favor for that triumph achieved iu the cause of the 
true faith. The sovereigns themselves were for a time 
dazzled by this sudden and easy acquisition of a new 
emjiire. of indefinite extent and apparently boundless 
wealth. 

^ ^ * 
About the middle of April Columbus arrived at 
Barcelona, where every preparation had been made to 
give him a solemn and magnificent reception. The 
beauty and serenity of the weather in that genial .sea¬ 
son and favored climate contributed to give splendor 
to this memorable ceremony. As he drew near the 


BARCELONA. 

K COLUMIU’S.”) 

place, many of the more youthful courtiers and 
hidalgos, together with a vast concourse of the pop¬ 
ulace, came forth to meet and welcome him. His 
entrance into this noble city has been compared to one 
of tho.se triumjihs which the Romans were accustomed 
to decree to conquerors. First were paraded the 
Indian.s, painted according to their savage fashion, and 
decorated with their national ornaments of gold ; after 
the.se were borne various kinds of live parrots, to¬ 
gether with stuffed birds and animals of unknown 
species, and rare plants supposed to be of j)recious 
qualities; while great care was taken to make a con¬ 
spicuous display of Indian coronets, hracelets, and other 
decorations of gold, which might give an idea of the 
wealth of the newly discovered regions. After this 
followed (’olumhus on horseback, surrounded by a 
brilliant cavah-ade of Spanish chivalry. The streets 
were almost impassable from the countless multitude; 










444 


WASHINGTOX IKVING. 


the windows and balconies were crowded with the fair; 
the very roofs were covered with spectators. It 
seemed as if the public eye could not be sated with 
{razing on these trophies of an unknown world, or on 
the remarkable man by whom it had been discovered. 
There was a sublimity in this event that mingled a 
solemn feeling with the public joy. It was looked 
upon as a vast and signal dispensation of Providence 
in reward for the piety of the monarchs; and the 
maje.stic and venerable appearance of the discoverer, 
so different from the youth and buoyancy generally 
expected from roving enterprise, seemed in harmony 
with the grandeur and dignity of his achievement. 

To receive him with suitable pomp and distinction, 
the sovereigns had ordered their throne to be placed 
in public, under a rich canopy of brocade of gold, in 
avast and splendid saloon. Here the king and queen 
awaited his arrival, seated in .state, with the Prince 
Juan beside them, and attended by the dignitaries of 
their court, and the princi)>al nobility of Castile^ 
Valencia, Catalonia, and Aragon, all impatient to be¬ 
hold the man who had conferred so incalculable a 
benefit upon the nation. At length Columbus en¬ 
tered the hall, surrounded by a brilliant crowd of 
cavaliers, among whom, says Las Casas, he was con¬ 
spicuous for his stately and commanding })erson, 
which, with his countenance rendered veneraltle by 
his gray hairs, gave him the august ap|>earance (tf a 
senator of Pome. A modest smile lighted uj) his 
features, showing that he enjoyed the .state and glory 
in which he came, and certainly nothing could be 
more deeply moving to a mind inflamed liy noble am¬ 
bition, and conscious of having greatly deserved, than 
these testimonials of the admiration and gratitude of 
a nation or rather of a world. As ('olumbus ap- 
pr ached, the sovereigns rose, as if receiving a person 


' of the highest rank. Bending his knees, he offered 
to kiss their hands ; but there was some hesitation on 
their part to permit this act of homage. Raising him 
in the most gracious manner, they ordered him to seat 
himself in their presence; a rare honor in this proud 
and punctilious court. 

At their request he now gave an account of the 
most striking events of his voyage, and a description 
of the islands discovered. He displayed specimens of 
unknown birds and other animals; of rare plants of 
medicinal and aromatic virtues ; of native gold in dust, 
in crude masses, or labored into barbaric ornaments; 
and, above all, the natives of these countries, who were 
objects of intense and inexhau.stible interest. All the.se 
he pronounced mere harbingers of greater discoveries 
yet to be made, which would add realms of incalcu¬ 
lable wealth to the dominions of their majesties, and 
whole nations of proselytes to the true faith. 

When he had finished, the sovereigns sank on their 
knees, and, raising their clasj)ed hands to heaven, 
their eyes filled with tears of joy and gratitude, poured 
forth thanks and praises to God for so great a provi¬ 
dence; all present followed their example; a deep 
and solemn enthusiasm pervaded that sjilendid assem¬ 
bly, and prevented all common acclamations of tri¬ 
umph. The anthem Te I)enm /o/o/onnos, chanted by 
the choir of the royal chapel, with the accompaniment 
of imstruments, rose in full body of sacred harmony, 
bearing u]» as it were the feelings and thoughts of the 
auditors to heaven, ‘‘so that.” says the venerable Las 
Hasas. “ it seemed as if in that hour they communi¬ 
cated with celestial delights.” Such was the solemn 
and ])ious manner in which the brilliant court of Spain 
celebrated this sublime event; offering up a grateful 
tribute of melody and praise, and giving glory to God 
for the discovery of another world. 


THE GALLOPING HESSIAN. 


HE revel now gradually broke up. The old 
farmers gathered together their families in 
their wagons, and were heard for some time 
rattling along the hollow roads and over the distant hills. 
Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their 
favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, ming¬ 
ling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent 


woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they grad¬ 
ually died away—and the late .scene of noise and frolic 
was all .silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered be¬ 
hind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have 
a tetf-d-tete with the heiress, fully convinced that he 
was now on the high road to success. What passed 
at this interview I will not pretend to say, for, in fact, 











WASIirXGTOX IRVIXG. 


445 


I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must 
have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after 
no very great interval, with an air (juite desolate and 
chapfallen. Oh these women ! these women! Could 
that girl have been jilaying oft' any of her cocjuettish 
tricks? Was her encouragement of the poor peda¬ 
gogue all a mere sham to secure her concjuest of his 
rival? Heaven only knows, not I! J^et it suftice to 
say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had 
been .sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair lady’s 
heart. 'Without looking to the right or left to 
notice the scene of rural wealth on which he had so 
often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and 
with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed 
most uncourteously from the comfortable (piarters in 
which he was soundly sleeping, dreamitig of mountains 
of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and 
clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that Icha¬ 
bod. heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travels 
homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which 
rise above Tarrytown, and which he had traversed 
so cheerily in the afternoon, 'fhe hour was as di.smal 
as himself. Far below him the Tappan Zee spread 
its dusk and indistinct waste of waters, with here and 
there the tall mast of a sloop riding quietly at anchor 
under the land. In the dead hush of midnight he 
could even hear the barking of the watch-dog from 
the opposite shore of the Hudson ; but it was so vague 
and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from 
this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, 
the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awak¬ 
ened, would sound far, far off, from some farmhouse 
away among the hills—but it was like a dreaming 
sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, 
but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or 
perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog, from a 
neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and 
turning suddenly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had 
heard in the afternoon now came crowding upon his 
recollection. The night grew darker and darker, the 
stars seemed to sink deeper in the .sky, and driving 
clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had 
never felt so lonely and di.smal. He was. moreover, 
approaching the very place where many (tf the scenes 
of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of 


j the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered 
I like a giant above all the other trees of the neighbor- 
j hood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were 
1 gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for 
ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth and 
rising again into the air. It was connected with the 
tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, who had 
been taken prisoner hard by ; and was universally 
known by the name of Major Andre’s tree. The 
common people regarded it with a mi.vture of respect 
and superstition, |)artly out of sympathy for the fate 
of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales 
of strange sights and doleful lamentations told con¬ 
cerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began 
to whistle; he thought his whistle was answered ; it 
was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry 
branches. As he approached a little nearer, he 
thought he saw something white hanging in the 
midst of the tree—he paused and ceased whistling; 
but. on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a 
place where the tree bad been scathed by lightning, 
and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a 
groan—bis teeth chattered, and his knees smote 
against the saddle; it was but the rubbing of one 
huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about 
l)y the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but 
new perils lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small 
brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and 
thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley’s 
Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served 
for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the 
load where the brook entered the wood, a group of 
oaks and chestnuts, matted thick Avith wild grape¬ 
vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this 
bridge was the severest trial; It was at this identical 
spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and 
under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were 
the sturdy yoemen concealed who surprised him. 
'fliis has ever since been considered a haunted stream, 
and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has 
to pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream, his heart began to 
thump ; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, 
gave his hor.se half a score of kicks in the ribs, and 
attempted to dash briskly across the bridge ; but in- 






446 


WASHINGTON IRVING. 


stead of starting forward, the perverse nld animal 
made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against 
the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the 
delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked 
lustily with the contrary foot ; it was all in vain ; his 
steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to 
the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles 
and alder-bushes. The schoolmaster now ^bestowed 
both whip and heel u))on the starveling ribs of old 
Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffing and snort¬ 
ing, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a 
suddenne.ss that had nearly sent his rider sprawling 
over his head. Just at this moment a jdashy tramp 
by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of 
Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the 
margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, mis- 
shaj»en, black and towering. It stirred not, but 
seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic 
monster ready to spring upon the traveler. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his 
head with terror. What was to be done? To turn 
and fly was now too late ; and, besides, what chance 
was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was. 
which could ride upon the wings of the wind ? 
Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he 
demanded in stammering accents—Who are you ?” 
He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a 
still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. 
Once more he cudgelled the sides of the infle.xible 
Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with 
involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then 
the shadowy object of alarm put it.self in motion, and 
with a scramble and a bound stood at on.e in the 
middle of the road. Though the night was dark 
and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now 
in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a 
horseman of large tlimensions, and mounted on a 
black hor.se of powerful frame. He made no offer of 
molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side 
of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old 
Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and 
waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange mid¬ 
night companion, and bethought himself of the 
adventure of Brom Bones with the Galloping 
Hessian, now quickened his steed in hopes of leaving 
him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his 


horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell 
into a walk, thinking to lag behind—the other di<l 
the same. His heart began to sink within him ; he 
endeavored to resume liLs psalm tune, but his j)arched 
tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could 
not utter a stave. There was something in the 
moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious com¬ 
panion that was mysterious and appalling. It wa.s 
soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising 
ground, which brought the figure of his fellow- 
traveler in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, 
and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on 
perceiving that he was headless !—but his horror was 
still more increased on observing that the head, which 
.should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before 
him on the pommel of the saddle: his terror rose to 

de.'jperation ; he rained a .shower of kicks and blows 

* ♦ 

upon Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement to 
give his companion the slip—but the spectre .started 
full jump with him. Away then they dashed, through 
thick and thin ; stones flying and si)arks flashing at 
every bound. Ichabod’s flim.sy garments fluttered in 
the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over 
his house's head, in the eagernes.s'of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which tiiiais off to 
Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed pos- 
ses.sed with a demon, instead of keeping uj) it. made 
an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down the hill 
to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, 
shaded by trees for about a fpiarter of a mile, where 
it crosses the bridge ffimous in goblin story, and just 
beytind swells the green knoll on which stands the 
whitewaslu'd church. 

As yet the jianic of the steed had given his un¬ 
skilful rider an apparent advantage in the chase; but 
ju.st as he had got half-way through the hollow the 
girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it .slipping 
from under him. He .seized it by the jMimmel, and 
endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and he had 
jmst time to .save himself by clasping old Gunpowder 
round the neck, when the saddle lell to the earth, 
and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. 
For a moment the terror of Hans Van lli|iper’.s 
wrath ])assed across his mind—for it was his Sun¬ 
day saddle ; but this was no time for petty lears ; 
the goblin was hard on his haunches ; and (un.skilful 
rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain 




WASH IXGTOX I RVING. 


447 


his seat; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes 
on the other, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge 
of his horse's backbone, with a violence that he verily 
feared would cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the 
hopes that tlie church bridge was at hand. The 
wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of 
the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He 
saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the 
trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom 
Bones’ ghostly competitor had disappeared. “ If 1 
can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “ 1 am 
safe.” Just then he heard the black steed panting 
and blowing close behind him ; he even fancied that 
he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in 
the ribs, and old Gunjjowder sprang upon the bridge; 
he thundered over the resounding planks ; he gained 
the opposite side ; and now Ichabod cast a look be¬ 
hind to see if his pursuer should vanish, ac¬ 
cording to rule, in a flash of tire and brimstone. 
Just then he .saw the goblin lising in his stirrups and 
in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod 
endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too 
late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous 
crash—lie was tumbled headlong into the dust, and 
Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider 
pa.^.sed bv like a whirlwind. 

The ne.\t morning the old horse was found without 
his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly 
cropping the gra.ss at his master’s gate. Ichabod did 
not make his appearance at breakfast—dinner-hour 
came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled in the 
schoolhou.se, and strolled idly about the banks of the 
brook ; but no schoolma.ster. Hans Van Bipper 
now began to feel some unea.siness about the firte of 
poor Ichabod and his saddle. An iiujuiry was set on 
foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon 
his traces. In one part of the road h'adiiig to the 
church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; 
the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, 
and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the 
bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part 


of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, 
was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and 
close beside it a shattered jiumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the 
schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans \’’an 
Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined the 
bundle, which contained all his worldly effects. They 
consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the 
neck ; a pair or two of worsted stockings ; an old 
pair of corduroy smallclothes; a rusty razor; a book 
of psalm tunes, full of dog’s ears; and a broken 
pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the 
schoolhouse. they belonged to the community, ex¬ 
cepting Cotton Mather’s History of Witchcraft, a 
New Kngland Almanac, and a book of dreams and 
fortune-telling : in which last was a sheet of foolscap 
much scribbled and blotted in .several fruitless attempts 
to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of 
Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl 
were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van 
Ripper ; who from that time forward determined to 
send his children no more to school, observing that 
he never knew any good come of this same reading 
and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster pos¬ 
sessed, and he had received his quarter’s pay but a 
day or two before, he must have had about his person 
at the time of his disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much .speculation at 
the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers 
and go.ssi{)S were collected in the churchyard, at the 
bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin 
had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, 
and a wlnfle budget of others, were called to mind; 
and when they had diligently considered them all, 
and compared them with the symptoms of the pre.sent 
ca.se. they .shook their heads, and came to the con- 
clu.sion that Ichabod had been carried off by the 
Gallo])ing Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in 
nobody’s debt, nobody troubled his head any more 
about him. the school was removed to a different part 
of the Hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his 
stead. 




CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 



HUMORIST AND JOURNALIST. 

HARLES DUDLEY WARNER belongs to a class of writers which 
has been aptly called the meditative school in American literature, 
but few of the so-called meditative writers so sparkle with humor as 
does the genial and humane author of “ My Summer in a Garden,” 
and few writers of any school have so succeeded in presenting whole¬ 
some truth and lofty thought in the pleasing form of humorous con¬ 
versation on such common subjects as gardening, back-log fires, and the every-day 
life of the farmer-boy. 

He is one of our leading apostles of culture, and he is himself a glowing example 
of the worth of culture, for he has steadily raised himself from the flat levels of 
life to a lofty pinnacle of influence and, power simply because he possessed in high 
degree a keen insight, a dainty lightness of touch, a delicacy of thought and style, a 
kindly humor, and a racy scent for “ human nature.” It was a long time before he 
discovered his own powers and he labored at a distasteful profession until his nature 
cried out for its true sphere, but his early life in many respects was imperceptibly 
ministering to the man that was to be. 

He was born of English non-conformist stock, in the hill country of Plainfield, 
jMassachusetts, in 1829—a lineal descendent of a “Pilgrim Father” and the son of 
a well-to-do farmer, of more than ordinary mental parts. He had his period in the 
New England district school, and in 1851 he was graduated from Hamilton College, 
New York, where he had gained a college reputation as a writer. 

Had he not been a “ born writer ” the next period of his life would have made a 
literary career impossible for him. A winter in Michigan, ending in dismal failure, 
two years of frontier life as a surveyor, and then the pursuit of legal studies, followed 
by the practice of law in Chicago seemed to have been hostages to fortune against 
the pursuit of fame in the field of pure literature. 

But he had the blood of the “ Brahman caste ” and it was certain to assert itself. 
In 18G0, his friend Hawley (now United States Senator from Connecticut) invited 
him to accept the position of assistant editor on the Hartford “ Press,” and his 
talents for successful journalism were at once apparent, from which he stepped quite 
naturally into the narrower circle—“ the brotherhood of authors.” 

“ My Summer in a Garden” (1870), his first literary work, was first written as a 
series of weekly articles for the Hartford “ Courant,” and their reception at once 
made him a man of note. 


448 























CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 


449 


This work is a delightful prose pastoral, in which the author described his ex¬ 
periences with gardening and finds quaint and subtle connections between “ pusley ” 
and “original sin,” while its humorous touches of nature and human nature give it 
a peculiar charm. “ Saunterings,” a volume of reminiscences of Eurot)ean travel, 
was also published the same year. 

“ Back-Log JStudies” (187li), wi’itten in praise of the sweet and kindly influences 
of the home fireside, appeared first as a series in “ Scribner’s Magazine ” and added 
much to the author’s reputation, as it marked a decided advance in style and elegance 
of diction. 

His carefully prepared occasional addresses, on such subjects as Education, Cul¬ 
ture and Progress, sliow that he has dee^) convictions and an earnestness of heart, as 
well as the delicate fancy and playful humor which first matle him a favorite author. 
If he is an apostle of culture, he is no less the herald of the truth that “the scholar 
must make his jioetry and learning subserve the wants of the toiling and aspiring 
multitude.” 

“ Baddeck, and That Sort of Thing” (1874) is a delightful sketch of travels, a 
field of literature in which Warner is a master. “ My Winter on the Nile ” (1876), 
“In the Levant” (1877), “In the AVilderness ” (1878), “Roundabout Journey” 
(1883), and “ Their Pilgrimage” (1886) are his other contributions to this de{)art- 
ment of literature. 

In 1884 he became coeditor of “ Harper’s Magazine,” to which he has contri¬ 
buted a valuable series of papers on “ Studies in the South,” “ Studies in the Great 
West,” and “ Mexican I^aj)ers,” critically discussing the educational, political, and 
social condition of these states. 

He is the author of “ Ca])tain John Smith,” and of “ Washington Irving ” in 
the “ Men of Letters Series ” of which he is editor. 

Nowhere is his humor more free and unrestrained than in “ Being A Boy ” and in 
How I Shot the Bear.” 

His home is at Hartford, Conn. 


THK MORAL QUALITY OF VEGETABLES.* 

FROM “MY SUMMER IN A GARDEN.” 


AM more and more impressed with tlie 
moral qualities of vegetables, and contem¬ 
plate forming a science which shall rank 
with comparative philology—the science of compara¬ 
tive vegetable morality. We live in an age of 
Protopla.sm. And, if life matter is essentially the 
same in all forms of life, I propose to begin early, 
and ascertain the nature of the plants for which I 
am responsible. I will not associate with any vege¬ 
table which is disreputable, or has not some quality 
which can contribute to my moral growth. 

Why do we respect some vegetables and despise 
others, when all of them come to an equal honor or 
ignominy on the table ? The bean is a graceful, con¬ 


fiding, engaging vine ; but you never can put beans into 
poetry nor into the highest sort of prose. There is 
no dignity in the bean. Corn—which in my garden 
grows alongside the bean, and, so far as I can see, 
with no affectation of superiority—is, however, the 
child of song. It waves in all literature. But mis 
it with beans, and its high tone is gone. Succotash 
is vulgar. It is the bean in it. The bean is a vulgar 
vegetable, without culture, or any flavor of high 
society among vegetables. 

Then there is the cool cucumber—like so many 
people, good for nothing when its ripe and the wild¬ 
ness has gone out of it. IIow inferior to the melon, 
which grows upon a similar vine, is of a like watery 


* Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 



29 



450 


CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 


consistency, but is not half so valuable! The ] 
cucumber is a sort of low comedian in a company 
where the melon is a minor gentleman. 1 might 
also contrast the celery with the pntato. The asso¬ 
ciations are as opposite as the dining-room of the 
duchess and the cabin of the peasant. 1 admire the ' 
potato both in vine and blossom ; but it is not aristo¬ 
cratic. 

The lettuce is to me a most interesting study. 
Lettuce is like conversation ; it must be fresh and crisp, 
so sparkling that you scarcely notice the bitter in it. 
Lettuce, like most talkers, is however apt to run 
rapidly to seed. Blessed is that sort which comes to 
a head, and so remains—like a few people I know— 
growing moie solid and satisfactory and tender at the 
same time, and whiter at the centre, and crisp in 
their maturity. Lettuce, like conversation, reipures 
a good deal of oil, to avoid friction, and keep the 
company smooth ; a jnnch of Attic Salt, a dash of 
pepper, a quantity of mustard and vinegar, by all 
means—but so mixed that you will notice no sharp 
contrast—and a trifle of sugar. You can put any¬ 
thing—and the more things the better—into salad, 
as into conversation ; but everything depends upon 
the skill in mixing. I feel that I am in the best 
society when T am with lettuce. It is in the select 
circle of vegetables. The tomato appears well on 


the table ; but you do not want to ask its origin. It is 
a most agreeable pdri'cmi. 

Of course, I have .said nothing about the berries. 
They live in another and more ideal region ; except 
perhaps the currant. Here we see that even among 
berrie.s there are degrees of breeding. The (urrant 
is well enough, clear as truth, and exquisite in color; 
but 1 ask you to notice how far it is from the exclu¬ 
sive hauteur of the aristocratic strawberry, and the 
native refinement of the (juietly elegant rasj)berry. 

Talk about the Darwinian theory of development, 
and the {)rinciple of natural selection ! J should like 
to see a garden let to run in accordance with it. If 
I had left my vegetables and weeds to a free fight, 
in which the stronge.st sjiei imens only should come to 
I maturity, and the weaker go to the wall, I can clearly 
j see that I should have had a prett}’ mess of it. It 
would have been a scene of passion and license and 
brutality. The ‘‘pusley ” would have strangled the 
.strawberry ; the upright corn, which has now ears to 
hear the guilty beating of the hearts of the children 
who steal the raspberries, would have been dragged 
to the earth by the wandering bean; the snakegrass 
would have left no place for the potatoes under 
ground ; and the tomatoes would have been swamped 
by tbe lusty weeds. With a firm hand I have had 
to make my own “ natural selection.” 


r. 


■ft 










) 


DONALD (iPvANT MITCHELL. 

AT^THOR OF “REVERIES OF A BACHELOR” AXD “ DREAM LIFE.” 


sDER the jien name of “Ik Marvel,” Donald (f. Mitchell is among 
the best known literary men of the world. His chief works consist 
ot a dozen volumes or more ranging hack for tiftv years; but readers 
who know the “Reveries of a Bachelor” and “J)ream Life,” jiossess 
a deal- comjirehension of this author. In learning those books they 
have learned him by heart. Except that he has mellowed with age 
there is little change in his charming style from his first book issued in 1847 to his 
last—“American Land and Letters”—which a]>j)eared in 1897. 

Washington Irving spoke of being drawn to Donald G. JMitchell, by the (pialities 
of head and heart which he found in his writings. No doubt if Irving had named 
these qualities he would have agived with the general verdict that tliey consisted 
in a clearness of conce])tion with which he gras]ied his theme, the faithfulness with 
which his thought })ursued it, the sympathy with which he treated it and the quality 
of modesty, grace, dignity and sweetness which characterized his style. i 8 ays one 
of his critics; “Mitcliell is a man who never stands in front of his subject, and who 
never asks attention to himself. Washington Irving had the same characteristics 
and it was natural that they should be drawn together. In early life, jMitchell 
seems to have been much under Irving. “Dream Life” was dedicated to that 
veteran, and some of the liest sketches tliat can now be found of Irving are in 
Mitchell’s written recollections of him. The disciple howevei-, was not an imitator. 
Mitchell’s papers on “The Squire” and “The Country Church” are as characteristic 
as any thing in the “Sketch Book,” but their writer’s style is his own. 

Donald G. iMitchell was born in Norwich, Connecticut, April 12, 1822. He 
graduated at Yale in 1841 and afterwards worked three yeai’S on his grandfather’s 
farm, thus acquiring a taste for agriculture which has clung to him through life, 
and which shows itself in his “Edgewood” books. His first contributions were 
to the “Albany Cultivator,” a farm journal. He begun the study of law in 1847, 
but abandoned it for literature. 

Mr. Mitchell has been sevei-al times abroad, always returning with some¬ 
thing refreshing for his American readers. He has also lectured on literature at 
A"ale College. In 1858, he was appointed United States Consul to Venice by 
President Pierce, but resigned after a few months. His home has been, since 1800 , 
on his charming country })lace, “Edgewood,” near New Haven, Connecticut, and 
nearlv all his books—exce})t “English Lands and Letters” (1800), and “American 
Lands and Letters” (1807)—are fragrant with the breath of the farm and rural 
scenery. 

451 















‘a cosy sit-down over oysters and champagne” 

452 


(iLIMPSES OF “ DREAM-LIFE” 


Part Second 


By Ik Marvel 

ly/Z/i original illnsirations by Corwin K. 
Linson. 

The scene now changes to the cloister of 
a college. Your room is scantily fur¬ 
nished, and even the books are few—a 
couple of grammars, a Euclid, a Xeno¬ 
phon, a Homer and a Livy. Besides 
these classics there are scattered about 
here and there a thumb-worn copy of 
British ballads, an odd volume of the 
“Sketch Book, ” a clumsy Shakespeare,and 
a pocket edition of the Bible. With such 
appliances, added to the half-score of pro¬ 
fessors and tutors who preside over the 
awful precincts, you are to work your way 
with men ; and vour chum, a hard-faced fel - 


up. It is pleasant to measure yourself 




Glimpses of “Dream-Life” 


453 



‘•‘MADGE,’ SHE SAYS, ‘IS SITTING BY ME WITT HER WORK’ 



low of ten or more years than you — digging sturdily at his tasks, seems by that 
very community of work to dignify your labor. 

You have a classmate—I will call him Dalton—who is very intimate with a 
dashing Senior, and it is a proud thing to happen at their rooms occasionally, and 
to match yourself for an hour or two (with the windows darkened) against a Senioi 
at “ old sledge.’’ Sometimes you go to have a cozy sit-down over oysters and 
champagne;—to which the Senior lends himself, with the pleasantest condescen¬ 
sion in the world. You are not altogether used to hard drinking; but this, you 
conceal—as most spirited young fellows do—by drinking a great deal. You have 
a dim recollection of certain circumstances—very unimportant, yet very vividly 
impressed on your mind—which occurred on one of these occasions. 

The oysters were exceedingly fine, and the champagne—exquisite. You have 
a recollection of something being said, toward the end of the first bottle, of Xeno¬ 
phon, and of the Senior’s saying in his playful way—“ Oh, d—n Xenophon!’’ 

You remember that Dalton broke out into a song, and that for a time you 

joined in the chorus; you think 
the Senior called you to order 
for repeating the chorus in the 
wrong place. You think the 
lights burned with remarkable 
brilliancy; and there is a rec¬ 
ollection of an uncommon diz¬ 
ziness afterward—as if your 
body was very quiet, and your 
head gyrating with strange ve¬ 
locity, and a kind of centrifu¬ 
gal action, all about the room, 
and the college, and indeed the 


DIGGING STURDILY AT HIS TASKS’ 


whole town. 



454 


Glimpses of “Dream-Life” 




In following the mental vagaries of 
youth, I must not forget the curvetings 
and wiltings of the heart. The black- 
eyed Jenny has long been forgotten. 
As for Madge, the memory of her has 
been more wakeful, but less violent. 
Nelly’s letters not unfrequently drop 
a careless half-sentence, that keeps 
her strangely in mind. “ Madge,’’she 
says, “ issitting by me with her work;’’ 
or, “ you ought to see the little silk 
purse that Madge is knitting.’’ All 
this will keep Madge in mind in those 
odd half-hours that come stealing over 
one at twilight. A new romantic ad¬ 
miration is started by those lady-faces 
which light up, on a Sunday, the gal- 




UPON THE GRASSY HANK OE 
STREAM ” 


lery of the college chapel, 
and the prettily shaped fig¬ 
ures that go floating along 

the thoroughfares of the old town. 

But this cannot last. As the years 
drop off a certain pair of eyes beams one 
day upon you, that seems to have bee:, 
taken out of a page of Greek poetry. 
The figure, too, might easily be that of 
Helen, or of Andromache. You gaze— 
ashamed to gaze ; and it is no young girl, 
who is thus testing you; there is too 
much pride for that. A ripeness and ma¬ 
turity rest upon her look and figure that com¬ 
pletely fill up that ideal. After a time you 
find that she is the accomplished sister of your 
friend Dalton; she is at least ten years Dalton’s 
senior; and by even more 
.years your own! 


Very few individu¬ 
als in the world pos¬ 
sess that happy con¬ 
sciousness of their own 
prowess, which be¬ 
longs to the newly 
graduated collegian. 
He has no idea of de¬ 
feat ; he proposes to 
take the world by 
storm; he is half sur- 


'HE WEARS HIS HONOR AT THE PUKLIC TABLES” 























Glimpses of ** Dream-Life ” 


455 




prised that quiet people are not startled by his 
presence. He brushes with an air of import¬ 
ance about the halls of country hotels; he 
wears his honor at the public tables; he fan¬ 
cies that the inattentive guests can have 
little idea that the young gentleman, who so 
recently delighted the public ear with his dis¬ 
sertation on the “General Tendency of Opin¬ 
ion,” is actually among them, and quietly 
eating from the same dish of beef. 

Your mother half fears your alienation 
from the affections of home. Her letters all 
run over with a tenderness that makes you 
sigh, and that makes you feel a deep reproach 
and consciousness of neglect at heart. 


“we are quite alone, now, my boy” 


“THE MOONLIT WALKS UPON THE HILLS’ 


But an experience is approaching 
Clarence, that will drive his heart home 
for shelter like a wounded bird! The 
vision of your last college-year is not 
gone. That figure whose elegance your 
eyes then feasted on, still floats before 
you ; and the memory of 
the last talk with Laura 
is as vivid as if it were 
only yesterday that you 
listened to her. In¬ 
deed,this openingcam- 
paign of travel,— al¬ 
though you 
are almost 


ashamed to 
confess it 
yourself, 
is guid¬ 
ed by the 
thought 
of her. 
Dalton, 

and a party of friends, his sister among them, are 
journeying to the north. A hope of meeting 
them, scarcely acknowledged, spurs you on. 

Your thought bounds away from the beauty ^ 
of sky and lake, and fastens upon the ideal 
which your dreamy humors cherish. The j — 
very glow of pursuit heightens your fer¬ 
vor : — a fervor that dims sadly the newly 


DEATH—IT IS A TERRIBLE WORD' 








456 


Glimpses of “ Dream-Life 





awakened memories of home and your 
mother and Nelly. 

Dalton returns and meets you with 
that happy, careless way of his. Miss 
Dalton is the same elegant being that 
entranced you first. They urge you 
to join their party. But there is no 

need of urgence; those eyes, that figure, the whole pres¬ 
ence, indeed, of Miss Dalton, attracts you with a power 
which you can neither explain nor resist. Is it a dream, 
or is it earnest, those moonlit walks upon the hills that skirt 

the city, when you watch 


“ READ IT again" 


the stars, listening to her 

voice, and feel the pressure of that jeweled hand upon 
your arm? Poor Clarence! it is his first look at Life! 

With such attendance you draw toward the 
sound of Niagara; and its distant, vague roar, com¬ 
ing through great aisles of gloomy forest, bears up 
your spirit, like a child’s, into the Highest Presence. 

The morning after, you are standing with your 
party upon the steps of the hotel. A letter is handed 
to you. Dalton 
remarks, in a 
quizzical way, 
that “ it shows 
a lady’s hand.” 

A single \' 
glance at this 
letter blanches 


PLUMP AND THRIVING’ 




■‘you put Y'OUR hands in your pockets and look out upon the tossing sea 













Glimpses of “ Dream-Life 


457 




your cheeks. Your heart throbs — throbs 
harder—throbs tumultuously. You bite your 
lip; for there are lookers-on. But it will not 
do. You hurry away; you find your chamber 
and burst into a flood of tears. 

It is Nelly’s own fair hand, yet sadly 
blotted;—blotted with her tears, and blotted 
with yours. 

“It is all over, dear, dear Clarence!” she 
writes. “I can hardly now believe that our 
poor mother is indeed dead.” 

Dead!—It is a terrible word. 

For a long time you remain with only that 
letter and your thought for company. You 
pace up and down your chamber; again you 
seat yourself, and lean your head upon the 
table; enfeebled by the very grief that you 
cherish still. The whole day passes thus; you 
excuse yourself from all companionship; you have not the heart to tell the story of 
your troubles to Dalton—least of all, to Miss Dalton. Ten days after, you are 
walking toward the old homestead, with feelings such as it never called up before. 
Nelly is waiting for you, and your father is seated in his accustomed chair. 

You approach, and your father takes your hand again, with a firm grasp— 
looks at you thoughtfully—drops his eyes upon the fire, and for a moment there is 
a pause—“ We are quite alone, now, my boy!” 

Youthful passion is a giant. It overleaps all the dreams, 
and all tne resolves of our better and quieter nature; and 
drives madly toward some wild issue, that lives only in its 
frenzy. 


“the old clergyman sleeps beneath a brown stone slab 



Glimpses of “ Dream-Life ” 


458 

The last scene of summer changes now to the cobwebbed ceiling of an attor¬ 
ney’s office. Books of law, scattered ingloriously at your elbow, speak dully to 
the flush of your vanities. You are seated at your small side-desk, where you have 
wrought at those heavy mechanic labors of drafting, which go before a knowledge 
of your craft. A letter is by you, which you regard with strange feelings; it is yet 
unopened. It comes from Laura. It is in reply to one which has cost you very 
much of exquisite elaboration. You have made your avowal of feeling as much 
like a poem as your education would admit. Indeed, it was a pretty letter, in 
which vanity of intellect had taken a very entertaining part, and in which your 
judgment was too cool to appear at all. We will look only at a closing passage: 

-“ My friend Clarence will, I trust, believe me, when I say that his letter was a surprise 

to me. To say that it.was very grateful, would be what my womanly vanity could not fail to 
claim. I only wish that I was equal to the flattering portrait which he has drawn, I even 
half fancy that he is joking me, and can hardly believe that my matronly air should have 
quite w’on his youthful heart. At least I shall try not to believe it; and when I welcome him 
one day, the husband of some fairy, who is worthy of his love, we will smile together at the 
old lady who once played the Circe to his senses. Seriously, my friend Clarence, I know 
your impulse of heart has carried you away; and that in a year’s time you will smile with 
me, at your old penchant for one so much your senior, and so ill-suited to your years, as 
your true friend.— Laura.” 


Magnificent Miss Dalton! Read it again. Stick your knife in the desk—tut!— 








Glimpses of “Dream-Life” 


459 



“and you have worn this, MAGGIE?” 


you will break the blade! Fold up the letter carefully, and toss it upon your pile of 
papers. Open Chitty again;—pleasant reading is Chitty! Lean upon your hand—• 
your two hands;—so that no one will catch sight of your face. Chitty is very inter¬ 
esting; how sparkling and imaginative—what a depth and flow of passion in Chitty! 

It would be well not to betray your eagerness to go. You can brush your hat 
a round or two, and take a peep into the broken bit of looking-glass over the 
wash-stand. You lengthen your walk, as you sometimes do, by a stroll upon the 
Battery—though rarely, upon such a blustering November day. You put your 
hands in your pockets, and look out upon the tossing sea. It is a fine sight—very 
fine. There are few finer bays in the world than New York bay; either to look 
at, or—for that matter—to sleep in. You try sadly to be cheerful; you smile 
oddly; your pride comes strongly to your help, but yet helps you very little. It 
is not so much a broken heart, that you have to mourn over, as a broken dream. 

It is not long, to be sure, since the summer of life ended with that broken 
hope; but the few years that lie between have given long steps upward. There 
have been changes in the home-life. Nelly is a wife and the husband yonder, as 
you may have dreamed, is your old ‘friend Frank. As for Jenny—your first fond 
flame!—she is now the plump and thriving wife of the apothecary of the town! 
She sweeps out every morning, at seven, the little entry of the apothecary’s house; 
she wears a sky-blue calico gown, and dresses her hair in three little flat quirls on 
either side of her head. 

The heats of the city drive you away and you are at home again—at Frank’s 
house. You ramble over the hills that once bounded your boyish vision, and in 


460 


Glimpses of “Dream-Life” 




FATHER! 


like angel’s looks. 
Her motions have a 
native grace and 
freedom, that no 
culture can bestow. She is dignified and calm and 
sweet. Her words have a gentle earnestness and 
honesty, that could never nurture guile. 

Strange feelings come over you;—feelings like 
half-forgotten memories — musical — dreamy — 
doubtful. You have seen a hundred faces more 
brilliant than that of Madge; you have 
pressed 


the view of those sweet scenes which belonged to early 
days, when neither strength, confidence, nor wealth 
were yours, days never to come again—a shade of 
melancholy broods upon your spirit, and covers with 
its veil all that fierce pride which your worldly wisdom 
has wrought. The boys whom you astounded with 
your stories of books are gone, building up now with 
steady industry the queen cities of our new western 
land. The old clergyman—he sleeps beneath a brown- 
stone slab in the churchyard. The stout deacon is 
dead; his wig and his wickedness rest together. The 
tall chorister sings yet; but they have now a bass-viol, 
handled by a new schoolmaster, in place of his tun¬ 
ing-fork; and the years have sown feeble quavers in 
his voice. 

Once more you meet, at the home of Nelly, the 
blue-eyed Madge. The sixpence is all forgotten ; you 
cannot tell where your half of it is gone. Yet she is 
beautiful—just budding into the full ripeness of 
womanhood. Her eyes have a quiet still joy and hope 
beaming in them. 

■ ^ ^ • 


hundred jeweled 


hands 


that 






; f! 


YOUR COUNTRY HOME 







Glimpses of “Dream-Life” 


461 




have returned a half-pressure to yours. 
You do not exactly admire; to love, you 
have forgotten; you only—linger! 


‘the time of power is past” 


You have returned to your noisy ambi¬ 
tious office-life, but after a time sick¬ 
ness has overcome you, and as soon as 
you have gained strength once more you 
go back to Nelly’s home. Again your 
eye'rests upon that figure of Madge, and 
upon her face, wearing an even gentler 
expression, as she sees you sitting pale 
and feeble by the old hearthstone. She 
brings flowers — for Nelly: you beg 
Nelly to place them upon the little 
table at your side. It is the only taste 
of the country that you are enabled, as 
yet, to enjoy. You love those flowers. 

It is strange—this feeling in you. It is not the feeling you had for Laura 
Dalton. It does not even remind you of that. That was an impulse; but this is 
growth. That was strong; but this is—strength. If it were not too late! 

A year passes and summer comes again. You have been walking over the 
hills of home with Madge and Nelly. Nelly has found some excuse to leave you, 
glancing at you most teasingly as she hurries away. You are left sitting with 

Madge, upon a bank tufted with blue 
violets. You have been talking of the 
days of childhood, and some word has 
called up the old chain of boyish feel¬ 
ing, and joined it to your new hope. 
What you would say crowds too fast 
for utterance; and you abandon it. 
But you take from your pocket that 
little old broken bit of sixpence—which 
you have found after long search—and 
without a word, but with a look that 
tells your inmost thought, you lay it in 
the half-opened hand of Madge. She 
looks at you, with a slight suffusion of 
color—seems to hesitate a moment— 
raises her other hand, and draws from 
her bosom, by a bit of blue ribbon, a 
little locket. She touches a spring, and 
there falls beside your relic—another 
that had once belonged to it. 

Hope glows now, like the sun! 

-“ And you have worn this, 

•MADGE, MADGE, MUST IT BE?’ AND A PLEASANT Maggie? ’’ 

SMILE LIGHTS HER eye; AND HER GRASP IS “ ” 

WARMER ; AND HER LOOK IS—upward” -AlwayS. 









462 


Glimpses of “Dream-Life” 




What a joy tobeafather! 

What new emotions crowd 
the eye with tears, and make / 
the hand tremble! What a 
benevolence radiates from 
you toward the nurse, toward 
the physician — toward 
everybody! What a h o 1 i - 

ness, and sanctity of love “that is it, maggie, 

’ U 1 THE OLD home” 

grows upon your old devo¬ 
tion to that wife of your bosom —the mother of your child! 

There was a time when you thought 
it very absurd for fathers to talk about 
theirchildren; but it does not seem at 

all absurd now. You think, on the contrary, that your old 
friends, who used to sup with you at the club, would 
be delighted to know how your baby is getting on, 
and how much he measures around the calf of the 
leg! If they pay you a visit, you are quite sure 
they are in an agony to see Frank; and you hold 
the little squirming fellow in your arms, half con¬ 
science-smitten for provoking them to such envy 
as they must be suffering. 




A NEW BETROTHAL The Strength and pride of manhood are gone; 

the time of power is now past; your manliness has 
told its tale; henceforth your career is down ;—hitherto, you have journeyed up. 
You look back upon a decade, as you once looked upon a half-score of months; a 
j ■' ;« - year has become to your slackened memory, and to your dull 

perceptions, like a week of childhood. Suddenly and swiftly 

come past you greatwhirlsof gone- 
!, by thought, and wrecks of vain 
labor, eddying to the grave. 

The same old man is in his 
chamber; he cannot leave his 
chair now. The sun is shining 
brightly: still, the old man can¬ 
not see. 

, “ It is getting dark, Maggie. ” 

I Madge looks at Nelly—wistful- 
'ly—sadly. The old man murmurs 
something; and Madge stoops. 
“Coming,” he says.“Coming. ” 




^Mt is GET-jING park, MAGGIE'* 













EJhMUNI) Cl.ARENCE STEDMAN. 


POET AND CRITIC : AUTHOR OF “ THE VICRTORIAN POETS.’’ 


UKIXG the y(^ar 18o9, two poems were published in the New York 
Trihune wliieh made <ienuiiie sensations. Tliey were so unlike in 
subject and treatment that no one would have guessed they emanated 
from the same liraiii and were penned by the same hand. Tlie first, 
entitled “ The J)ianiond Wedding,” was a humorous thrust of ridicule 
at the “jiarade” made in the ])apers over the lavish and expensive 
jewels and other gifts presented by a wealthy Cuban to his bride—a young lady of 
New A'ork. This jioem, when jiublished, called forth a challenge liom the irate 
father of the lady; but, fortunately, a duel was somehow averted. 

The other poem, “ How Old Brown Took Harper’s Ferry,” recounted the incident 
of that stern old abolitionist boldly marching with a few men into Virginia and 
capturing the town of Harper’s Ferry. There was no American jioet who might 
not have felt proud of this production. Bayard Taylor was so pleased with the 
genius manifested in both these poems tliat he sought the author’s acquaintance and 
introduced him to K. H. Stoddard, who in turn, after examining a collection of Ids 
verses, recommended them for publication to Charles Scribner, who issued them the 
next year (1860) under the title of “ Poems, Lyric and Idylic.”—Thus was Mr. 
Stedman introduced into the literary world. 

Edmund Clarence Stedman is a native of Connecticut. He was born in the city 
of Flartford on the eighth day of October, 1883,—and comes of a good family of 
some poetic reputation. Rev. Aaron Cleveland, one of his ancestors, is said to have 
been a poet. Arthur Cleveland Cox, well known as a religious writer of verse, was 
Ids cousin. His mother was herself a poet, and also the author of the tragedy 
“ Bianco Caprello.” When Stedman was two years of age he was sent to live with 
his grand-uncle, James Stedman, a jurist and scholar, who looked carefully after the 
early education of his nephew. At the age of sixteen, he was sent to Yale College, 
where he w^as among the foremost in English com])osition and Greek. But it is 
said that for .some disobedience of the discipline of the institution, he fell under the 
censure of the college management and left without graduating. The University 
afterward, however, enrolled him among the alumni of 1853 with the degree of 
Master of Arts. 

Upon leaving A'ale, at the age of nineteen, Stedman took the management of a 
newspaper at Norwich, and the next year married a Connecticut girl and became 
owner of the Winsted Herald, wdien he was only twenty-one. Under his manage- 

463 



















EDMUND CLARENCE yXEDMAN. 


464 

nient, tliis paper soon rose to be one of the most important of tlie political papers of 
the State. Three years later we find him writing on the “ New \ ork Iribune,” 
where he obtained a foot-hold in literature, as we have already indicated by the 
publication of the two poems above mentioned. 

When the “ World ” was started, in the winter of 1800, Mr. Stedinan engaged 
with that journal and was editor of it when the news came over the wires that Port 
Sumter had been fired upon. He wrote a poem on the occasion which was, perhaps, 
the first poem ins})ired by the war between the states. Soon after this Mr. Stetl- 
man went to Washington as the army correspondent of the “ World.” He was at 
the first battle of Bull’s Bun and published a long and graphic letter in the 
^‘AVorld” about the defeat of the Union troops which he witnessed. This letter was 
the talk of the town for days and altogether has been })ronounced the best single 
letter written during the whole war. 

Before the close of the war, Stedman resigned his jmsition as editor and 
entered the office of Attorney Genei-al Bates at AVashingtou ; but in January, 1804, 
he returned with his family to New York and published his second volume ot 
poems entitled, “ Alice of Monmouth, An Idyl of the Great War, and Other Poems,” 
which may be described as a little poetic novel. The opening scene is laid in Mon¬ 
mouth County, New Jersey ; the later ones on the battle fields of Virginia. 

The titles and dates of Mr. Stedman’s other books are as follows : “ The Blame¬ 
less Prince, and other Poems” (1869); “Poetical Works” (1873); “Victorian 
Poets” (1875) ; “Hawthorne and Other Poems” (1877); “Lyrics and Idyls, with 
Other Poems” (1879); the “Poems of Austin Dobson,” with an introduction 
(1880); “Poets of America”-(1886), and with Ellen Mackay Hutchinson, he 
edited “A Library of American Literature” (11 vols., 1888—1890). 

Many people entertain the notion that a man cannot be at one and the same time, 
a poet and a man of business. This is a mistake. Fitz Green Hallack was for 
many years a competent clerk of John Jacob Astor; Charles Sprague was for forty 
years teller and cashier in a Boston l)aidv ; Samuel Bodgers, the English poet, was 
all his life a successful banker; Charles Follen Adams, the humorous and dialectic 
poet, is a ])rosperous merchant in Boston ; and Edmund Clarence Stedman has 
been for many years the head of a firm of stock brokers with a suit of offices in 
Exchange Place, New York, dealing in government securities and railway stocks 
and bonds, and also petroleum, in which fortunes were at one time made and lost 
with great rapidity. Nevertheless, iMr. Stedman, the stock-broker and banker is 
still Mr. Stedman, the poet. The most of his s[)lendid verses have been produced 
Avhile he was depending for a living upon journalistic work or u])on some business 
for support. Mr. Steelman also illustrates the fact, as Edgar Allen Poe had done 
before him, that a poet may be a practical critic. And why not? If poets are not 
the best critics of j)oetry, musicians are not the best critics of music, architects are 
not the best critics of architecture and ])ainters of painting. IMi*. Stedman’s “ Vic¬ 
torian Poets” is, perhaps, the most important contribution of all our American 
writers to the critical literature on the English Poets. 

The home-life of Mr. Stedman is described as being an ideally ha]>pv one. One 
of his poems entitled “ Laura, My Darling,” addressed to his wife, gives us a delight¬ 
ful glimpse into the heart and home of the poet. 


EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 


465 


BETROTHED AxNEW. 


“Tlie sunshine of the outer world beautifully illustrates the sunshine of the heart in the ‘Betrothed 
Anew ’ of Edmund Clarence Stedman.”— Morris. 


HE sunlight fills the trembling air. 

And balmy days their guerdons bring; 
The Earth again is young and fair, 

And amorous with musky spring. 

The golden nui-slings of the May 

In splendor strew the spangled green, 

And hues of tender beauty play. 

Entangled where the willows lean. 

Mark how the rippled currents flow; 

What lustres on the meadows lie! 

And, hark ! the songsters come and go, 

And trill between the earth and sky. 

Who told us that the years had fled. 

Or borne afar our blissful youth ? 

Such joys are all about us spread, 

We know the whisper was not truth. 

The birds that break from gra.ss and grove 
Sing every carol that they sung 


When first our veins were rich with love 
And May her mantle round us flung. 

0 fresh-lit dawn ! immortal life ! 

O Earth’s betrothal, sweet and true. 
With whose delights our souls are rife! 
And aye their vernal vows renew! 

Then, darling, walk with me this morn ; 

liOt your brown tresses drink its sheen ; 
These violets, within them worn, 

Of floral fays shall make you queen. 

What though there conies a time of pain 
When autumn winds forebode decay? 
The days of love are born again ; 

That fabled time is far away! 

And never seemed the land so fair 
As now, nor birds such notes to sing, 
Since first within your shining hair 
I wove the blossoms of the spring. 



THE DOORSTEP. 


HE conference meeting through at last. 
We boys around the vestry waited. 
To see the girls come tripping past 
Ijike snow-birds willing to be mated. 

Not braver he that leaps the wall. 

By level musket-flashes litten. 

Than I, who stepped before them all 
Who longed to see me get the mitten. 

But no, she blushed and took my arm ! 

We let the old folks have the highway. 

And started toward the IMaple Farm, 

Along a kind of lovers’ by-way. 

I can’t remember what we said, 

’’fwas nothing worth a song or story. 

Yet that rude jiath by winch we sped 
Seemed all transformed and in a glory. 

The snow was crisp beneath our feet, 

The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; 

By hood and tippet sheltered sweet 

Her face with youth and health was beaming. 

The little hand outside her muff— 

0 sculptor, if you could but mould it! 

30 


So slightly touched my jacket-cuff, 

To keep it warm I had to hold it. 

To have her with me there alone, 

’Twas love and fear and triumph blended: 

At last we reached the foot-worn stone 
Where that delicious journey ended. 

She .shook her ringlets from her hood, 

And with a “ Thank you Ned,” dis.sembled. 

But yet I knew .‘jhe understood 

With what a daring wish I trembled. 

A cloud pas.sed kindly overhead. 

The moon was slyly peeping through it. 

Yet hid its face, as if it said, 

“ Come, now or never, do it, do it! ” 

My lips till then had only known 
The kiss of mother and of sister. 

But somehow full upon her own 

Sweet, rosy, darling mouth—I kissed her! 

Perhaps ’twas boyish love, yet still, 

O li.stless woman ! weary lover ! 

To feel once more that fresh wild thrill, 

I’d give—But who can live youth over! 










HAMILTON AV. MABIE. 

THE MODERN CRITIC. 

N the nioclerji school of literary critics, whose best representatives are 
Coleridge, Carlyle, Arnold, Lowell and Stedman, Hamilton AV. 
Mabie has a prominent place. His aim has been, as is the aim of 
all great criticism, not only to give an estimate of a man’s work, but 
to show the man’s soul. He was born at Cold Springs, on the 
banks of the Hudson, of a family of culture. He was prepared for 
college under a private tutor, and graduated at Mulliams College in the Class of 
’67—a class which numbered many men of fame. 

From boyhood Maybie has been a great reader, and he is familiar with the classics 
of all literatures, as well as a student of contemporaneous literature. 

After a course of law at Columbia University his literary tendencies drew him 
into his natural held and away from a profession uncongenial to him. In 1879 he 
took a position on the staff of the “Christian Union,” which under its new name, 
the “Outlook,” under the joint editorship of iMabie and Lyman Abbott, has taken 
a prominent place among the foremost religious journals of the world. “My Study 
Fire,” which expresses our author’s ideas of the function of literature, and the atti¬ 
tude and spirit of the literary man, first appeared as a series of articles in this 
religious journal. 

In the last few years Mr. i\Iabie has taken a prominent place on the platform on 
literary and educational subjects, though he scrupulously keeps his public speaking 
subordinate to his writing. His addresses are marked with elegance, grace, and all 
the fruits of culture, and they show a profound study of the problems of life and 
spirit. He has a beautiful liome at Summit, New .Tersey. an enviable site for a 
writer, with the multitudinous charms of nature without and the gathered wisdom 
of the world’s great thinkers within. 

He is a man of robust life, of clear, healthy mind and of high faith. He has 
declared that “ Skepticism is the root of all evil in us and in our arts. AVe do not 
believe enough in God, in ourselves, and in the divine laws under which we live. 
Great art involves great faith—a clear, resolute, victorious insight into and grasp of 
things, a belief real enough in 



‘ The mighty hopes which make us men ’ 

to inspire and sustain heroic tasks,” a declaration quite typical of all his thought. 

466 





















COUNTRY SIGHTS AND SOUNDS 
By Hamilton W. Mabie 

Illustrated from original photographs by Conrad Baer. 

At the end of February the observer begins to see the faint forerunners of 
spring. The willow shows signs of renewing its freshness, and the long stretch of 
cold, with brilliant or steely skies, is interrupted by days full of an indescribable 
softness. It is almost pathetic to note with what joy the spirit of man takes cog¬ 
nizance of these first hints of the color, the bloom and the warmth slowly creeping 
up to the southern horizon-line. For we are children of the sun, and, much 
as we love our hearthstones, we are never quite at home unless we have the free¬ 
dom of the out-of-door world. Winter finds its great charm in the ingathering of 
the memories of the summer that is gone and in the anticipation of the summer that 
is at hand. Half the cheer of the blazing log lies in the air of the woods which it 
brings into the narrow room. 

To be out of doors is the normal condition of the natural man. At some period 
of our ancestral life, so dim in our thought but so potential in our temper, dis¬ 
position and physique, we have all lived, so to speak, in the open air; and although 
city-born and city-bred, we turn to the country with an instinctive feeling that we 
belong there. There are a few cockneys to whom the sound of Bow Bells is 


ON THE FARM IN CANADA 

467 









468 


Country Sights and Souncis 


sweeter than the note of the bluebird, 
the resonant clarion of chanticleer or the 
far-off bleating of sheep; but to the im¬ 
mense majority of men these noises are 
like sounds that were familiar in child¬ 
hood. I have sometimes thought that the 
deepest charm of the country lies in the 
fact that it was the home and play-ground 
of the childhood of the race, and, however 
long some of us have been departed from 
it, it stirs within us rare memories and as¬ 
sociations which are imperishable. The 
lowing of cattle coming home at night¬ 
fall; the bleating of sheep on the hillside 
pastures; the crowing of the cock, are 
older than any human speech which now 
exists. They were ancient sounds before 
our oldest histories were written. I know 
of nothing sweeter to the man who comes 
out of the heat and noise and dust of the 
city in midsummer than to be awakened 

■' ... THE 01.1) WELL-CURB 

on the first morning by that irregular 
tinkle of bells which accompanies the early processions of the cows. One may 
never have come nearer a farm than his great-grandfather, but that sound makes 
him feel as if he were at home after some long and arduous absence. 

And one has but to put into his pocket a few of those clever newspapers which 
satirize society people in spirited and well-drawn lines, and carry them into the 
country, to discover that the picturesque flees the city and loves the country; so 
far, that is, as people are concerned. There is certainly something wrong with 




IMMIGR.^NT WOMEN HOEING POTATOES 


















Country Sights and Sounds 


469 




our modern dress; it is impos* 
sible to discover anything sug¬ 
gestive or poetic in it, or to 
make any thing artistic out of 
it. Well-dressed i n d i V i d u a I 
men and women are often 
attractive to the eye; but 
when this is true it is because 
the charm of the person sur¬ 
vives the monotonous uniform¬ 
ity of good clothes. Nothing 
can make the evening dress in 
which man extinguishes his 
personality either significant 
or artistic; but the man in 

WAITING FOR MILKING-TIME ,, , , • , 

overalls and shirt-sleeves is 
often a strikingly picturesque figure. Country life as a whole is steeped in the pic¬ 
turesque, in spite of the machines which so largely take the place of the old-time 
hand labor. One must go to the fields to find the poetry of human occupation: 
the man in the street is often interesting but he rarely stirs the imagination; the 
man in the fields constantly sets the imagination loose. "What elemental strength 
and meaning are expressed in those peasant-figures of Millet? They belong to 
the world in which they toil; 
they disclose their identity 
with it; they express some¬ 
thing of its meaning in their 
vigorous or bent forms. 

The entire life of the field 
is poetic in the true sense; 
from the hour when the last 
snow begins to melt to the 
hour when the last sheaf of 
grain goes creaking through 
the bars. The sower, moving 
across the open furrows, has a 
kind of antique picturesque¬ 
ness; he seems to have step¬ 
ped out of that ancient frieze 
with which the earliest habits 
encircled the oldest days. He 
expresses freedom, v i ri I i t y, 
personality in every move¬ 
ment ; the eye follows him 
with a deepening impression 
that here is something native 
and original: a man in first¬ 
hand relations with his world. 

The reaper who follows him 


AFTER WORK 






470 


CoLiniry Sights and Sounds 


WINTER EVENING ON THE FARM 


when sun and cloud have 
done their share, is not less 
striking and effective; and 
when the sheaves lie in rows 
or piles on the freshly cut 
stubble, the slow-moving, 
noisily creaking wagon, con¬ 
stantly pausing to take on 
its ripe load, seems a fit ac¬ 
cessory in the staging of this 
pastoral drama. The fact 
that this poetry of motion 
is bound to toil so arduous 
and exacting that it often 
becomes a kind of relentless 
drudgery, is full of signifi¬ 
cance to those who believe 
that beauty is not esoteric, but the affluence of universal life in its normal relations 
and occupations. 

The sights and sounds of the farm are not only full of interest, but that inter¬ 
est is deepened by their constant recurrence. The horses at the trough; the 
sheep beside the stream as placid as themselves, or on the green uplands; the cows 
stolidly biding the coming of afternoon under the trees, or standing knee-deep in 

the cool brooks; the clucking 
of hens and their bustling leis¬ 
ure ; the going out of the work¬ 
ers, with implements, seed, 
machines, wagons, and their 
return at sunset; the stir of the 
morning, the hush of the even¬ 
ing; what a world of homely, 
wholesome life is revealed in 
these old-time doings and hap¬ 
penings of the seasons and the 
life on the farm. 

But the farm is often only r 
unit of measurement, a term of 
individual possession; there is 
something greater; there is the 
country. Beyond the fields 
there is the landscape, and 
above them there is the sky; 
and every farm fits into these 
wider relations and is part of 
the larger whole. The woods, 
cool and silent; the spring hid¬ 
den from the sun by overhang- 
suNDAY AFTERNOON '^ig trees and from strange feet 








Country Sights and Sounds 


by moss-grown rocks; the brook where 
itruns noiselessly in a shadow so deep at 
noon that one bathes his eyes in it after 
the glare of the world; the old mill, de¬ 
serted by man but loyally served by the 
stream that flows through the decaying 
sluice and over the wheel that turns no 
more; the quiet hilltop, above which the 
whole country sleeps on summer after¬ 
noons;—these are all simply extensions 
of the farm. The boys know them on 
holidays; the older people are drawn to 



CHURNING IN THE BARN 


for they are, one and all, places of si¬ 
lence and solitude. 

The fever of this our life, and the 
tumult of it, vanish on the invisible 
boundaries of these ancient sanctuaries 
of nature. It is not difficult to under¬ 
stand the charm of these places for tired 
and worn souls; for it is to such places 
that exhausted men and women invari¬ 
ably turn. No one with a rich intel¬ 
lectual and spiritual nature, can keep in 
perfect health without a good deal of 



A SUNNY PLAY-GROUND 


them in those infrequent hours when 
the pressure of work is lightened; the 
man wlm is getting city sights and 
sounds out of head and heart knows 
and loves them. The very thought of 
them brings refreshment and repose; 



THE OLD MILL 












4/2 


Country Sights and Sounds 


solitude and silence. We come 
to know ourselves and the 
world in the deeper ways only 
when we are apart from the 
rush of things. It is only 
when traffic ceases and the 
dust is laid that the landscape 
becomes clear and complete to 
the pedestrian. The quiet of 
the woods, the cool note of the 
mountain streams, the silence 
of the summits, represent, not 
the luxuries and pleasures of 
a rich life, but its necessities, 
d’o the townsman these outly¬ 
ing provinces of the farm are even more important than are the well-tilled acres. 

Some day some man or woman will write a luminous book on the education of 
country life; the training of the eye, the ear, the hand, the unconscious enrichment 
of the senses and of the mind which are effected by its sights and sounds. There 
has never been in the long history of education, a better school for the open-minded, 
imaginative boy or girl than the farm. Every day sets its tasks, every task teaches 
its lessons; and nature stands looking over the student’s shoulder and quietly 

whispering some of her deep¬ 
est secrets to her fortunate 
child. 

For surely it is a great 
piece of good fortune to grow 
up in a wise, generous home 
m the country; to be young- 
with all manner of four-footed 
beasts and fowls of the air, 
and grow up with them; to 
stumble over the roots of trees 
when one is beginning to walk 
to hear the brooks chatter be¬ 
fore one knows how to chatter 
himself; to awake in the stir 
of the morning, when the 
whole world seems to be go¬ 
ing to work, and to fall asleep 
when the world comes troop¬ 
ing home, dusty and tired. 

To see and hear these out¬ 
door sights and sounds is to 
be born into vital relations 
with man’s natural back¬ 
ground and to come uncon¬ 
sciously into possession of 



MAPLE-SUGAR TIME 






Country Sights and Sounds 


473 




THE BLACK SHEEP 

quaintance of nature in childhood than 
in those later years which bring “ the 
philosophic mind,” but which leave the 
senses untrained for that instinctive 
observation which enables the boy to 
see without knowing that he sees. 

John Burroughs has given us achar- 
ming description of the joys of boy¬ 
hood on a farm, and has perhaps uncon¬ 
sciously betrayed the secret of his own 
extraordinary familiarity with the out- 
of-doors world. No knowledge is quite 
so much a part of ourselves as that 
which we gain without conscious effort; 
which we breathe in with the morning 
air of life. 

The Hindoos have an idiomatic 


some of the greatest truths which 
life has to teach. It is also to be 
born on intimate terms with blue¬ 
birds and cherries! 

” If you want to know where 
the biggest cherries are to be 
found,” said Goethe,“consult the 
boys and the blackbirds. ” There 
is a natural affinity between the 
two, and the boy who does not 
grow up in natural relationship 
with birds and trees suffers a loss 
of privilege which can never be 
entirely made up. For it is a 
great deal easier to make the ac- 



NOON IN THE SHEEP-LOT 


word or phrase fora walk be¬ 
fore breakfast, which may be 
translated, “ eating the morn¬ 
ing air. ” 

The boy on the farm sees 
nature before breakfast, wher 
senses and mind and heart art 
on the alert, when experience 
has not brought sophistication 
with it, and when sensation 
still keeps its pristine fresh¬ 
ness. 

The healthy boy is one 
great appetite for sights and 
sounds, and nothing escapes 
him. He knows every path 













474 


Country Sights and Sounds 




FEEDING THE CHICKENS 

whom he takes into the wilderness 
with him shall be of the right sort; 
one who, as Burroughs says, will 
not “stand between you and that 
which you seek. ’’ 

“I want for companion,' ’ he con- 
tinues,“a dog or a boy, or a person 
who has the virtues of dogs and boys 
—transparency, good-nature, curi¬ 
osity, open sense, and a nameless 
quality that is akin to trees, and 
growths, and the inarticulate forces 
of nature. With him you are alone 
and yet you have company; you 
are free; you feel no disturbing ele¬ 
ment; the influences of nature 
stream through and around him; 
he is a good conductor of the subtle 
fluid. 

“ The quality or qualification I 
refer to belongs to most persons who 


through the woods, every pool in the 
brook, every cavern in the hills,every 
sequestered hollow where the noise 
of the world is softened into the si¬ 
lence of rustling leaves and murmur¬ 
ing streams. One of the most eru¬ 
dite of American scholars, whose large 
learning has not smothered the in¬ 
stincts of his youth, declares that he 
is never entirely happy until he stands 
barefooted in the old fields. 

Nature’s true lovers perceive this, 
and demand that the companion 


FICKING DAISIES 


spend their lives in the open air— 
to soldiers, hunters,fishers, laborers, 
and to artists and poets of the right 
sort.’’ 

There is something incommun¬ 
icable in such a fellowship with na¬ 
ture, which dates back to the time 
when the boy found in her his chosen 
playmate, and which still keeps up 
the old game of hide and seek even 
when his methods have become 
scientific and the result of his search 
is a contribution to knowledge. 



MAKING FRIENDS 











KICHARD HARDING DAVIS. 

ICHARD HARDING DAVIS has shown a marvelous skill in seeing 
the world, in travel, and ol‘ describing it as he sees it. He is not a 
I profound student of the mystery of the human mind, but he pos¬ 
sesses in high degree and in rare quality an instinct of selection, a 
I clear sense of an artistic situation in a group of more or less ordinary 
circumstances and a gift in interesting description. He is, in short, 
a very clever newspaper reporter who has transferred his field of service from the 
region of the actual to the realm of the imaginary. His reputation, however, is 
about equally divided between his works of description and travel and his stories 
of a more imaginative order, though in both classes of writings, he is above every¬ 
thing else a describer of what he has seen. 

He was born in Philadelphia in 1864, the son of L. Clark Davis, an editor of 
reputation, and Rebecca Harding Davis, the author of many good stories, so that the 
child had a literary inheritance and an hereditary bent for letters. He studied for 
three years in Lehigh University and one year in Johns Hopkins, after which he 
began his interesting cai-eer as a journalist, serving successively “The Record,” 
“Press,” and “Telegraph” of Philadelphia. On his return from a European trip, 
he became connected with the New York “Evening Sun,” for which he wrote the 
famous series of “Van Bibber Sketches.” 

The story, however, which gave him his first real fame was “Gallegher,” the 
scene of which is laid in Philadelphia, though, as is true of all his stories, locality 
plays but little part in his tales, modes of life and not scenery being the main 
feature. 

He describes the happy-go-lucky life of the young club man, adventures in 
saloons, and scenes among burglars with remarkable realism, for as reporter he 
lived for a time among the “reprobates,” in disguise, to make a careful study of 
their manner of life. Again when he describes “The West from a Car Window,” 
he is giving scenes which he saw and types of life which he closely observed. His 
books always have the distinctive mark of spirit; they are full of life and activity, 
everything moves on and something “happens.” This is as true of his books of 
travel as of his stories. He has traveled extensively, and he has given descriptions 
of most of his journeys. 

Beside “The West from a Car Window” he has written, with the same reportorial 
skill and fidelity to observed facts, a book of descriptions of life and manners in the 
East, with scenes and incidents at Gibraltar and Tangiers, in Cairo, Athens and 
Constantinople. 



475 













Drawn hy Charles Dana Gibson 


bUG£^l£. 


476 






















































“ We make no choice among the varied paths where art and letters seek for truth.” 







THE ORIGIN OF A TYPE OF THE AMERICAN GIRL 

By Richard Harding D.avis. 

With original illustrations by Charles Dana Gibson. 

. - As I know nothing of art, I must suppose that when I was 

I ^_i ' something of Charles Dana Gibson, it was as a man 

that I was expected to write of him, and not as an artist. As he 
is quite as much of a man as he is an artist, which is saying a 
very great deal, I cannot complain of lack of subject-matter. But 
on the other hand, it is always much easier to write about an in- 
. dividual one knows only by reputation than of a man one knows 
as a friend, because in the former place one goes to the 
celebrity for the facts, and he supplies them himself, and 
so has to take the responsibility of 
all that is said of him. But when you know a man intimately 
and as a friend, you tell of those things which you personally 
have found most interesting in him, and the responsibility of 
the point of view rests entirely on your own shoulders. 

The most important thing about Mr. 

Gibson, outside of his art, is his extreme 
youth. This is not only interesting in it¬ 
self, but because it promises to remain with 
him for such a very long time. When I first 
met Gibson he was twenty-four years old. 

'I'hat was in London, five years ago, and he 
is now “ twenty-five years old, going on 
twenty-four,” so that if he keeps on 
growing at that rate, he will still be 
the youngest successful black and 
white artist in this country for 
twenty years to come, as he will 
even then, in 1914 , have only 
reached his thirtieth year. Of 
course this may be an error of the 
newspaper paragraphers, or a mistake 
on the part of Gibson himself, who 

477 


A FOLLOWER OF THE HOUNDS. 
































478 


The Origin of a Type of the American Giri 



having been called the Boy Artist for 
so long dislikes to give up his crim¬ 
son sash and knickerbockers. But 
in any event, it is most demoralizing 
to his friends, as it has kept several 
of them to my certain knowledge at 
the age of twenty-eight for the last 
five years, none of them caring to 
grow older until Gibson was ready 
to make the first move. 

It is always interesting to tell of 
the early struggles of great men, but 
Gibson’s difficulties were not very 
severe, and were soon overcome. 
When he recounts them now, to 
show that he as well as others has 
had to toil for recognition, he leaves 
the impression with you that what 
troubled his spirit most in those days was not that his drawings were rejected, 
but that he had to climb so many flights of stairs to get them back. His work 
then was in the line of illustrated advertisements which no one wanted, and it 
was not until he knocked at the door of the office of Life that he met with a 
welcome and with encouragement. In return for this early recognition, Mr. 
Gibson has lately erected and presented to that periodical a very fine eleven-story 



k 


























The Origin of a Type of the American Girl 


479 


building, on the top floor of which he occupies a large and 
magnificent studio. He ascends to this in a gilded elevator, 
scorning the stairs on which he climbed to success. His first 
contribution to Life was a sketch of a dog barking at the 
moon, which was drawn during the run of the “ .Mikado ” in 
New York, and the picture was labelled after a very pop¬ 
ular song in that opera, called “ The Moon and I.” Mr. 
Mitchell looked at the picture of the absurd little fo.\-ter- 
rier barking at the round genial moon, and wrote out a 
check for four dollars for Mr. Gibson, while that young man 
sat anxiously outside in the hall with his hat between his 
knees. He then gave the check to Mr. Gibson, who re¬ 
sisted the temptation to look and see for how large an 
amount it might be, and asked him to let them have 
“ something else.” Mr. Gibson went down the stairs sev¬ 
eral steps at a time, without complaining of their number, 
and as he journeyed back to his home in Flushing he ar¬ 
gued it out in this way : “ If I can get four dollars for a 
silly little picture of a dog,” he said, “ how much more will 
1 not receive for really humorous sketches of men and 
women. I can make six drawings as good as that in an 
evening, si.x times four is twenty-five dollars, and six 
sketches a day, not counting Sunday, 
will brinof me in one hundred and 




ARGUMENT, 


twenty-five dollars a week. Fifty- 
two times one hundred and twen¬ 
ty-five dollars is about seven thousand a year. My income 
is assured ! ” And in pursuance of this idea he actually 
sat down that night, under the lamp on the centre table, 
and drew six sketches, and the next morning took them 
to Mr. Mitchell, of Life, with a proud and confident bear- 
ng, and Mr. .Mitchell sent them all out to him again, and 
said that perhaps he had better try once more. 'I'hat he 
did try once more, is very well known to everybody in this 
country, and, since he exhibited in Paris last spring, to 
people on the other side of the water as well. Over there 
they gave him a whole wall to himself in the Salon of 
the Champ de Mars, and the French art critics were 
delighted and extravagant in their written “ appre¬ 
ciations.” But long before that exhibition of his 
work, the queer running signature of C. I). Ciib- 
son, with the little round circle over the i, had 
become significant and familiar. He had intro¬ 
duced us in those last few years to many types, and 
each possessed its own peculiar and particular virtue, 
but it was his type of the .American girl which made an 

_entire continent of .American girls profoundly 

grateful. Gibson has always shown her as a 


an AMERICAN GIRL. 















































periodicals, to 


The Origin of a Type of the American Girl 

fine and tall young person, with a beautiful face and figure, and with 
the fearlessness on her brow and in her eyes that comes from in¬ 
nocence and from confidence in the innocence of others toward 
her. And countless young women, from New York and Bos¬ 
ton to Grand Rapids and Sioux City, have emulated her erect 
carriage and have held their head as she does, and have dis¬ 
carded bangs in order to look like her, and fashioned their 
gowns after hers. It is as though Gibson had set up a stand¬ 
ard of feminine beauty and sent it broadcast through the land 
by means of the magazines and 
show his countrywomen of 
what they were capable, and of what was expected 
of them in consequence. But with all of this evi¬ 
dent admiration for the American woman Gibson 
is somewhat inconsistent. For he is constantly 
placing her in positions that make us fear she is 
a cynical and worldly-wise young person, and of a 
fickleness of heart that belies her looks. And 
the artist’s friends are constantly 
asked why he takes such a de¬ 
pressing view of matrimony, and 
why he thinks American girls are 
always ready to sell themselves 
for titles, and if he is not 
a disappointed lover him¬ 
self, and in consequence a little 
morbid and a good deal of a 
cynic. To Mr. Gibson’s friends 
these questions are as amusing as his pictures of 
ruined lives and unhappy marriages are curious, 
for it is only in his pictures that he shows cyni¬ 
cism, and neither in his conversation nor his con¬ 
duct does he ever exhibit anything but a most 
healthy and boyish regard for life and all that it 
gives. 

It is quite safe to say that Gibson is not a dis¬ 
appointed lover, or if he is, he has concealed the 
_ fact very well, and it cannot 
be said that his conduct tow¬ 
ard the rest of womankind 
shows the least touch of re¬ 
sentment. As an artist, how¬ 
ever, he is frequently disap¬ 
pointing to strangers, because 
he does not live up to the 
part, or even trouble to dress it prop¬ 
erly. He does not affect a pointed 
beard or wear a velvet jacket, or talk 







The Origin of a Type of the American Girl 


481 



of art, either of his own 
art or of that of someone 
else, and in this I think he 
shows himself much older 
than his years. People 
who talk to him of sub- probi.f.ms 

jects which they suppose are in his line of work, are met by a polite look of in- 

_ quiry, and their observations are received with a look of 

the most earnest attention. 

But he lets the subject drop when they cease talking. 
Like all great men, Gibson apparently thinks much more 
of the things he does indifferently well than of the one 
thing for which he is best known. He_ is, for instance, 
very much better pleased when he is asked to sing “ Tom¬ 
my Atkins,” than when editors of magazines humbly supplicate for 
the entire output of his studio ; and if anyone should be so brave 
as to ask him to sing a sentimental song, his joy would know no 
bounds. His reputation as a sailor is another thing that he 
guards most jealously, and all ot’ this last summer art editors 
telegraphed him for promised work until the wires burned, 
while the artist was racing in a small canoe around the rock- 
bound coast of Buzzards Bay. It is certainly a very healthy 
sign when a young man of “ twenty-five, going on twenty- 















482 


The Origin of a Type of the American Girl 




four,” can return after a nine months’ residence in Paris, and con¬ 
tentedly spend his first month at home seated on the tilting edge of 
a canoe in a wet bathing suit, for ten hours a day. It is also a good 
sign, and one that goes to show that Gibson is far from being spoiled ; 
that after having Sybil Sanderson sing and Loie Fuller dance in his 
Paris studio, before a polite circle of ambassadors 
and numerous pretenders to the throne of France, 

he can find equal entertainment in the lazy quiet 
'■jrAAi ^ Massachusetts fishing village, and in drawing 
posters to advertise the local church fair. Now 
that he has given up his flannels and sweater, and 
returned to his work in New York, Mr. Gibson has 
developed a desire to pose as a Bohemian, which 
his friends who live in hall-bedrooms resent, as they 
consider a Bohemian with a grand piano, and tap¬ 
estries four hundred years old, something of a curi¬ 
osity and a fraud. 

At present Gibson is full of a plan to bring out 
a selected number of drawings in book form, that 
they may not be lost in the cov¬ 
ers of the magazines, and his in- 
iN THE PARK. terest in this book is as great as 

though he did not know that his pictures are already preserved 
in the memories of many thousands, and actually in scrap-books 
and on the walls of offices and cabins and drawing-rooms. I have 
seen them myself pinned up in as far distant and various places 
as the dressing-room of a theatre in Fort Worth, Tex., and in a 
students’ club at Oxford. But it will be a great book, and it will' 

be dedicated to “A Little American Girl,” and only Mr. Gib¬ 
son’s friends will know that the picture of this sweet and in¬ 
nocent little maiden which will appear on the fly-leaf of the 
book is of his little sister. 

I fear this article does not give a very clear idea of its 
hero, and it would be certainly incomplete if I did not add 
that among Gib- ^ 

son’s other wick¬ 
ed habits, is the 
serious one of never keeping engage¬ 
ments, and his friends are now trying 
to cure him by never asking him any¬ 
where. When he is older he may over¬ 
come even this, and in the meanwhile, I 
will ask those who have read this not to 
judge Mr. Gibson by what I have said 
so ineffectually of him, but by his work, 
and they will understand that the artist 
that is capable of producing it, must 

be a pretty good sort of a man himself. a world’s fair group. 













THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. 

PATRIOT AND MAN OF LETTERS. 

HOMA8 WENTWORTH HIGGINSON is one of the group of men 
i of whom their countrymen should be most proud. He has taken a 
noble part in the battles on behalf of freedom, which the last half- 
century has seen, and everywhere has borne himself with a nobility, 
a devotion and a courage worthy of all praise. The man who was 
driven from his church because he preached the freedom of the 
slaves, who sat with Parker and Phillips under indictment for murder for their part 
in attempting to rescue a fugitive slave, who was colonel of the first regiment of 
freed slaves mustered into the army of the United States, who bravely fought and 
patiently suffered for the cause of the Union ; surely this man, if he had no other 
claims upon our respect and attention, should hold a high place in the hearts of his 
fellows. 

Colonel Higginson is a native of Cambridge, Massachusetts, and in 1847, when 
he was twenty-four years old, became pastor of a Congi-egational Church in New- 
buryport, Massachusetts. Here his anti-slavery preaching allowed him to remain 
but three years. From 1852 until 1858 he was pastor of a free church in AVorces- 
ter, after which he left the ministry and devoted himself to literature. During all 
this time his activity in the anti-slavery agitation was frequently getting him into 
trouble, and, with his friends who participated in the attempted rescue of Anthony 
Burns, he was discharged from custody only through a flaw in the indictment. He 
took part in the organization of the bands of free-state, emigrants to Kansas, and 
was personally acquainted with John Brown. AVith his regiment of colored troops, 
he took possession of Jacksonville, Florida ; but was wounded in 1868 and was 
compelled to resign from the army. He has been an earnest advocate of equal 
suffrage for men and women and of the higher education for both sexes. He has 
served in his State Legislature and as a member of the State Board of Education. 

Colonel Higginson’s contributions to literature consist largely of volumes of essa 3 ^s 
that originally appeared in the “ Atlantic Monthly ” or other periodicals, and his- 
toi’ical and biographical work. Some of his best known books are “ Atlantic 
Essays;” “ Young Folk’s History of the United States“ Young Folk’s Book of 
American Exjilorers;” “ Short Stories of American Authors “ A Larger History 
of the United States “The Monarch of Dreamsand “Brief Biographies of Euro¬ 
pean Statesmen.” Besides these, he has translated his “ Young Folk’s History of 
the United States ” into German and French for publication in those languages, and 

4«3 



























484 


THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. 


lias also ])ublislied a number of English translations ot modern and ancient classics. 
Colonel Higginson is one of our most pojmlar writers, particularly u{)on American 
history, and his service to the cause of American letters has been no less distin¬ 
guished than his share in the great victory which made our country in truth the 
land of the free. 


“A PURITAN SUNDAY MORNING.”* 

FROM “ ATLANTIC ESSAYS.” 


is nine o’clock upon a summer Sunday 
morning, in the year sixteen hundred and 
something. The sun looks down brightly 
on a little forest settlement, around whose expanding 
fields the great American wilderness recedes each day, 
withdrawing its bears and wolves and Indians into 
an ever remoter distance—not yet so far removed but 
a stout wooden gate at the end of the village street 
indicates that there is danger outside. It would 
look very busy and thriving in this little place to-day 
but for the Sabbath stillness which broods over every¬ 
thing with almost an excess of calm. Even the 
smoke ascends more faintly than usual from the 
chimneys of the numerous log-huts and these few 
framed houses, and since three o’clock yesterday 
afternoon not a stroke of this world’s work has been 
done. Last night a Preparatory Lecture was held, 
and now comes the consummation of the whole 
week’s life, in the solemn act of worship. In which 
settlement of the great Massachusetts Colony is the 
great ceremonial to pass before our eyes ? If it be 
Cambridge village, a drum is sounding its peaceful 
summons to the congregation. If it be Salem village, 
a bell is sounding its more ecclesiastic peal, and a red 
flag is simultaneously hung forth from the meeting¬ 
house, like the auction-flag of later periods. If it be 
Haverhill village, then Abraham Tyler has been blow¬ 
ing his horn assiduously for half an hour—a service 
for which Abraham, each year, receives a half pound 
of pork from every family in town. 

Be it drum, bell, or horn that gives the summons, 
we will draw near to this important building, the 
centre of the village, the one public edifice-meeting¬ 
house, town-house, schoolhouse, watch-house, all in 
one. So important is it, that no one can legally 
dwell more than half a mile from it. And yet the 
people ride to “ meeting,” short though the distance 
be, for at yonder oaken block a wife dismounts from 


behind her husband; and has it not, moreover, 
been found needful to impose a fine of forty shillings 
on fast trotting to and fro ? All sins are not modern 
ones, young gentlemen. 

\Ve approach nearer still, and come among the 
civic institutions. This is the pillory, yonder are the 
stocks, and there is a large wooden cage, a terror to 
evil-doers, but let us hope empty now. Round the 
meeting-house is a high wooden paling, to which the 
law permits citizens to tie their horses, provided it be 
not done too near the passageway. For at that 
opening stands a sentry, clothed in a suit of armor 
which is painted black, and cost the town twenty- 
four shillings by tbe bill. He bears also a heavy 
match-lock musket; his rest, or iron fork, is stuck 
in the ground, ready to support the weapon ; and he 
is girded with his bandolier, or broad leather belt, 
which sustains a sword and a dozen tin cartridge- 
boxes. 

0 the silence of this place of worship, after the 
solemn service sets in ! “ People do not sneeze or 

cough here in public assemblies,” says one writer 
triumphantly, “so much as in England.” The 
warning caution, “ Be short,” which the minister has 
inscribed above his study-door, claims no authority 
over his pulpit. He may pray his hour, unpausing, 
and no one thinks it long; for, indeed, at prayer- 
meetings four persons will sometimes pray an hour 
each—one with confession, one with private petitions, 
a third with petitions for Church and Kingdom, and 
a fourth with thanksgiving—each theme being con¬ 
scientiously treated by itself. Then he may preach 
his hour, and, turning his hour-glass, may say—but 
that he cannot foresee the levity to be born in a 
later century with Mather Byles—“ Now, my hearers, 
we will take another glass.” 



Copyright, Geo. R. Shepard. 







GEORGE BANCROFT. 

THE MOST FAMOUS AMERICAN HISTORIAN.” 


HE chief historians who have added lustre to American literature dur¬ 
ing the nineteenth century are Bancroft, Prescott, Motley, Parkman, 
McMaster and John Fiske ; and, when we add to these James Par- 
ton, the American biographer, we present an array of talent and 
scholarship on which any nation might look with patriotic })ride. 
They have been excelled by the historians of no other nation of our 
time, if, indeed—taken from a national standpoint—they have not produced the best 
historical literature of the present century. 

Though Prescott is tlie oldest, George Bancroft, in the estimation of the great 
majority, stands first, perhaps, among all the American historians. This eminent 
writer was born at Worcester, Massachusetts, in October, 1800, the same month and 
year in which Macauley, the great English historian, first saw the light, and,—after 
living one of the most laborious public and literary lives in the history of tlie world, 
—died at the ripe old age of ninety-one years (1891). His father, the Reverend 
Aaron Bancroft, was a minister of the Congregational Church in Worcester for 
more than a half century and had the highest reputation as a theologian of learn¬ 
ing and piety. 

At the early age of thirteen, George Bancroft entered Harvard College from 
which he graduated at the age of seventeen with the highest honors of his class. 
His first inclinations were to study theology; but in 1818, he went to Germany 
where he spent two years in the study of history and philology, and it was there 
that he obtained his degree of Doctor of Philosophy. During the next two years, 
he visited in succession, Berlin, Heidelberg, Rome, Paris, and London, returning 
home in 1822, the most accomplished scholar for his age which our country, at that 
time, had produced. 

Soon after his return to the United States, Mr. Bancroft was appointed to the 
chair of Greek in Harvard College and those who had the benefit of his instruction 
spoke of his zeal, faithfulness and varied learning as a teacher. He afterward 
established, in conjunction with Joseph G. Cogswell, a school of high classical char¬ 
acter at Northhampton, Massachusetts. While engaged here, he prepared a number 
of Latin text books for schools, which were far in advance of anything then used in 
the country. In the meantime, he had given some attention to politics and had 
been engaged for several years, incidentally, upon his “ History of the United 
States.” 


m 


485 
























486 


GEORGE BANCROFT. 


Ill 1828 Mr. Bancroft joined the Democratic Party, having formerly been a 
Whig, and began to take an active interest in politics, where his great historic 
learning and broad statesmanship placed him quickly on the high road to political 
preferment. He was elected to the Massachusetts Legislature in 1830, but declined, 
as he was then so much engaged upon his “History of the United States” that he 
was unwilling to turn aside, at least until the first volume was issued, which 
appeared in 1834. The first and second and third volumes of this work, comprising 
the Colonial history of the country, were received with great satisfaction by the 
public on both sides of the Atlantic, being in brilliancy of style, picturesque 
sketches of character and incidents, compass of learning and generally fair reason¬ 
ing far in advance of anything that had been written on the subject. 

“Bancroft, the Historian,” was now the recognition he was accorded, and his 
fame began to spread. He was made Collector of the Port of Boston in 1838 by 
President Van Buren, which position he held until 1841. In 1844 he ran as 
Democratic candidate for Governor of Massachusetts, but was defeated. During 
1845 and 1846 he served his country as Secretary of the Navy under President 
Polk, and while in this office he planned and established the Naval Academy at 
Annapolis and issued the orders % which California was annexed to the United 
States. In 1846 President Polk further honored the historian by appointing him 
Minister-Plenipotentiary to Great Britain, where he represented the United States 
until 1849. The first three volumes of Mr. Bancroft’s histories had preceded him 
to England. “The London Monthly Beview” sjDoke in the highest terms of his 
quality as a historian, praising the sustained accuracy and dignity of his style, 
referring to him as a philosopher, a legislator, and a historian. He was also 
honored with the degree of I). C. L., by Oxford University in 1849, and was 
enrolled as a member of many learned societies. 

Thus laden with honors, he returned this same year to his country, made New 
York his place of residence, and resumed, with renewed energy, the prosecution of 
his historical labors. The fourth volume of his “History of the United States” 
appeared in 1852, and the next year the fifth volume was ])ublished, which was suc¬ 
ceeded by the sixth and seventh, the latter appearing in 1858, bringing the history 
of our country down into the stirring scenes of the Kevolution. 

President Andrew Johnson made Mi*. Bancroft LTnited States Minister to Bussia 
in 1867, and he was our national representative at the North German Confederation 
in 1868. General Grant appointed him as our Minister to the German Empii-e 
from 1871 to 1874, during which time he enjoyed the closest friendship of Prince 
Bismarck. Bismarck declares that Banci-oft was the foremost representative of 
American grit that he had ever met. “Think,” said he to Minister Phelps many 
years afterwards, “of a Secretary of the Navy, a literary man by profession, taking 
it upon himself to issue orders for the occupation of a vast foreign territory as 
Bancroft did in the case of California. Again he caused the earliest seizure of 
Texas by the United States troops, while temporarily holding the portfolio of 
Minister of War. Only a really great man would undertake such responsibilities.” 

Bancroft’s “History of the United States” was completed in 1874; but the last 
and final revised edition of it was published in 1885, fifty-one years after the first 
volume had been issued. This great work comprises ten volumes and comes down 


GEORGE BAXCROFT. 


487 


only to the close of the Revolution. It is a monumental work within itself—a fit 
monument to tlie greatest of American historians. The patriotism and eloquence 
ot its author are manifest in nearly every page, and the work has been criticised as a 
Fourth-of-July oration in ten volumes. It is generally regarded as a standard 
history of America up to the time of the Constitution. 

Other works of Mr. Bancroft are “The Necessity, the Reality, and the Promises 
of the Human Race” (1854) ; “Literary and Historical Miscellanies” (1855), and 
“A Plea for the Constitution of the United States of America, Wounded in the 
House of its Guardians” (1886), written when the author was eighty-six years of age. 

Mr. Bancroft was an orator as well as a historian and politician, one of the best- 
known of his addresses being the famous oration on Lincoln, delivered befoi’e Con¬ 
gress in 1866. During the latter part of his life he had a winter home in Wash¬ 
ington, where the national archives and the Library of Congress were always at his 
hand, and a summer home at Newport, where he had a wonderful garden of roses, 
which was a great attraction. Rose-growing and horseback riding were his recrea¬ 
tions, and the erect and striking form of the historian, with his long gray beard, 
mounted on a fine horse, was for years a familiar figure at Newport and on the 
streets of Washington. 

It is beautiful to contemplate so long and useful a life as that of George Bancroft. 
When the old historian was nearly ninety years of age, he journeyed all the way 
from his northern home to Nashville, Tennessee, to make certain investigations, for 
historical data, among the private papers of President Polk. The writer of this 
sketch had the pleasure of witnessing the meeting between him and the venerable 
wife of James K. Polk at the old mansion which stands near the Capitol. It was 
a beautiful and impressive sight to see this grand old woman, who had been the 
first lady of the land forty-five years before, conducting this venerable historian, 
who had been her husband’s Secretary of War, about the premises. President 
Polk’s library with all the papers piled upon the table had remained just as he had 
left it, and into its sacred precincts Mr. Bancroft was admitted, with perfect liberty 
to select and take away whatever would he of service in his historical labors. 
AVdiat he did with these papers is unknown to the writer. Pei-haps his death 
occurred too soon after to render them of practical service; but that the old historian 
died in the harness may well be supposed from the following extract taken from a 
letter written when he was more than eighty years of age: “I was trained to look 
upon life here as a season for labor. Being more than fourscore years old, 1 know 
the time for my release will soon come. Conscious, of being near the shore of 
eternity, I wait without im])atience and without dread the beckoning of the hand 
which will summon me to rest.” 

The beckoning hand appeared several years later—in 1891—and he passed 
quietly “over the river,” only nine years in advance of the death of the century 
with which he was born, having spent altogether one of the busiest, one of the most 
honorable, one of the most useful and the very longest life of all the celebrities in 
American literature. His fame is secure. His works will live after him—a proud 
and lasting monument. 


GEOEGE BANCKOFT. 


488 


CHARACTER OF ROGER WILLIAMS. 


ITILE the State was thus connecting by the 
closest bonds the energy of its faith with 
its form of government, there appeared in 
its midst one of those clear minds which sometimes 
bless the world by their power of receiving moral 
truth in its purest light, and of reducing the just con¬ 
clusions of their principles to a happy and consistent 
practice. In February of the first year of the colony, 
but a few months after the arrival of Winthrop, and 
before either Cotton or Hooker had embarked for 
New England, there arrived at Nantasket, after a 
stormy passage of sixty si-v days, “ a young minister, 
godly and zealous, having precious ” gifts. It was 
Roger Williams. He was then but a little more than 
thirty years of age; but his mind had already ma¬ 
tured a doctrine which secures him an immortality of 
fame, as its application has given religious peace to 
the American world. He was a Puritan, and a fugi¬ 
tive from English persecution ; but his wrongs had 
not clouded his accurate understanding ; in the capa¬ 
cious recesses of liis mind he had revolved the nature 
of intolerance, and he, and he alone, had arrived at 
the great principle which is its sole effectual remedy. 
He announced his discovery under the simple propo¬ 
sition of the sanctity of conscience. The civil magis¬ 
trate should restrain crime, but never control opinion ; 
should punish guilt, but never violate the freedom of 
the soul. The doctrine contained within itself an en¬ 
tire reformation of theological jurisprudence ; it would 


blot from the statute-book the felony of non-con¬ 
formity ; would quench the fires that persecution had 
so long kept burning; would repeal every law com¬ 
pelling attendance on public worship ; would abohsh 
tithes and all forced contributions to the maintenance 
of religion ; would give an ecfual protection to every 
form of religious faith ; and never suffer the authority 
of the civil government to be enlisted against the 
mosque of the Mussulman or the altar of the fire- 
worshipper, against the Jewish synagogue or the 
Roman cathedral. It is wonderful with what dis¬ 
tinctness Roger Williams deduced these inferences 
from his great principle ; the consistency with which, 
like Pascal and Edwards,—those bold and profound 
reasoners on other subjects,—he accepted every fair 
inference from his doctrines ; and the circumspection 
with which he repelled every unjust imputation. In 
the unwavering assertion of his views he never 
changed his po.sition ; the sanctity of conscience was 
the great tenet which, with all its consequences, he 
defended, as he first trod the shores of New England ; 
and in his extreme old age it was the last pulsation 
of his heart. But it placed the young emigrant in 
direct opposition to the whole sy.stem on which IMas- 
sachusetts was founded; and, gentle and forgiving as 
was his temper, prompt as he was to concede every¬ 
thing which honesty permitted, he always asserted 
his belief with temperate firmness and unbending 
benevolence. 



DESTRUCTION OF THE TEA IN BOSTON HARBOR. 


On the 28th day of November, 1773, the ship Dartmouth appeared in Boston Harbor, wdth one hundred 
and fourteen chests of tea. The ship was owned by Mr. Rotch, a Quaker merchant. In a few days after, 
two more tea-ships arrived. They w'ere all put under strict guard by the citizens, acting under the lead of 
a committee of correspondence, of which Samuel Adams was the controlling spirit. The people of the 
neighboring towns were organized hi a similar manner, and sustained the spirit of Boston. The purpose 
of the citizens was to have the tea sent back without being landed : but the collector and comptroller re¬ 
fused to give the ships a clearance unless the teas were landed, and Governor Hutchinson also refused his 
permit, without which they could not pass the “ Castle,” as the fort at the entrance of Boston Harbor was 
called. The ships were also liable to seizure if the teas were not landed on the twentieth day after their 
arrival, and the 16th day of December w’as the eighteenth day after. 


HE morning of Thursday, the 16th of De¬ 
cember, 1773 , dawned upon Boston,—a day 
by far the most momentous in its annals. 
Beware, little town ; count the cost, and know well if 
you dare defy the wrath of Great Britain, and if 
you love exile, and poverty, and death, rather than 


•submission. At ten o’clock, the people of Boston, 
with at least two thousand men from the country, as¬ 
sembled in the Old South. A report was made that 
Rotch had been refused a clearance from the col¬ 
lector. “ Then,” .said they to him, “ protest im¬ 
mediately against the custom-house, and apply to 
















GEORGE BANCROFT. 


489 


the Governor for his pass, so that your vessel may 
this very day proceed on her voyage to London.” 

Tlie Governor had stolen away to his country- 
house at Milton. Bidding Botch make all haste, 
the meeting adjourned to three in the afternoon. 
At that hour Botch had not returned. It was in¬ 
cidentally voted, as other towns had done, to ab¬ 
stain wholly from the use of tea; and every town 
was advised to appoint its committee of inspection, to 
prevent the detested tea from coming within any of 
them. Then, since the governor might refuse his 
pass, the momentous question recurred, whether it be 
the sense and determination of this body to abide by 
their former resolutions with respect to not suffering 
the tea to be landed. On this question, Samuel 
Adams and Young* addressed the meeting, which 
was become far the most numerous ever held in 
Boston, embracing seven thousand men. There was 
among them a patriot of fervent feeling ; passionately 
devoted to the liberty of his country ; still young, his 
eye bright, his cheek glowing with hectic fever. He 
knew that his strength was ebbing. The work of 
vindicating American freedom must be done soon, or 
he will be no party to the great achievement. He 
rises, but it is to restrain ; and, being truly brave and 
truly resolved, he speaks the language of moderation ; 
“ Shouts and hosannas will not terminate the trials of 
this day, nor popular resolves, harangues, and accla¬ 
mations vanquish our foes. We must be grossly 
ignorant of the value of the prize for which we con¬ 
tend, of the power combined against us, of the in¬ 
veterate malice and insatiable revenge which actuate 
our enemie.s, public and private, abroad and in our 
bosom, if we hope that we shall end this controversy 
without the sharpest conflicts. Let us consider the 


issue before we advance to those measures which 
must bring on the most trying and terrible struggle 
this country ever saw.” Thus spoke the younger 
Quincy. “ Now that the hand is to the plough,” said 
others, “there must be no looking hack;” and the 
whole assembly of seven thousand voted unanimously 
that the tea should not be landed. 

It had been dark for more than an hour. The 
church in which they met was dimly lighted ; when, 
at a quarter before six. Botch appeared, and satisfied 
the people by relating that the governor had refused 
him a pass, because his ship was not properly cleared. 
As soon as he had finished his report, Samuel Adams 
rose and gave the word: “ This meeting can do 
nothing more to save the country.” On the instant, 
a shout was heard at the porch; the war-whoop re¬ 
sounded ; a body of men, forty or fifty in number, 
disguised as Indians, passed by the door, and, en¬ 
couraged by Samuel Adams, Hancock, and others, 
repaired to Griffin’s Wharf, posted guards to prevent 
the intrusion of spies, took possession of the three 
tea-ships, and in about three hours, three hundred 
and forty chests of tea—being the whole quantity 
that had been imported—were emptied into the bay, 
without the least injury to other property. “All 
things were conducted with great order, decency, and 
perfect submission to government.” The people 
around, as they looked on, were so still that the noise 
of breaking open the tea-chests was distinctly heard. 
A delay of a few hours would have placed the tea 
under the protection of the admiral at the Castle. 
After the work was done, the town became as still 
and calm as if it had been holy time. The men from 
the country that very night carried back the great 
news to their villages. 








•5a^ 


JAMES PARTON. 


WRITER OF BIOGRAPHY. 

MERE can be no higher pulilie service than that of the man wlio 
gives to his fellows, and particularly to the rising generation, good 
biographies of noble men. If this he true, then James Parton must 
he ranked among those wdio have done most for Americans, for the 
series of books which began many years ago with a life of Horace 
Greeley and which ended, only two months before the author’s death 
with the biography of Andrew Jackson, has made the heroes of American liistory 
real live men for thousands of readers, has stirred the patriotism and aroused the 
ambition of many a boyish student, and has won for himself the respect and esteem 
which belong to literary achievements. 

The ancestry of James Parton was French; his family having emigrated to 
England after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1085. 

He was horn in Canterbury, p]ngland, in 1822, and could just remember walking 
across the fields, in black clothes, at his father’s funeral. The solemn memory whicli 
thus took a strong hold upon Ids mind, was, jierhaps, partly responsible for his 
dislike for ecclesiastical forms and particularly for the ])ractice of formal “ mourn¬ 
ing.” His mother l)rought her little family to New York a year after her husband’s 
death, and James was educated iji the schools of that city and at AVhite Plains, 
New York. At the latter place he was in a boarding school where so much atten¬ 
tion was paid to religion tlrat nearly every boy who passed through it was a mend)er 
of the church. He seems to have found something repellent in the manner of pre¬ 
senting Christianity, and although he became a teacher in the school and later held 
for some years a similar position in Philadelphia, he sympathized less and less with 
it until he came avowedly to give up all belief in supernatural religion. He was a 
very successful teacher and took great delight in his work and would probal)ly have 
devoted his life to the schoolroom, had he not found himself unable to continue the 
custom of opening the sessions of school with prayer and on this account been com- 
])elled to give up his position. Returning to New York he became associated with 
N. P. AVillis in conducting the “Home Journal” and thus hegan his career as a 
literary man. While so employed he remarked one day to a New A"ork jmblisher, 
that a most interesting book could be made of the career of Horace Greeley, then at 
the summit of his power and fame as an editor. 

The suggestion resulted in his being commissioned to prepare such a biography, 
the publisher advancing the funds which enabled Mr. Parton to spend several 

490 


‘1 




















JAMES PA ETON. 


491 


months in collecting materials among the people in New Hampshire and Vermont, 
who had known Mr. Greeley in his early life. The book made a great sensation 
and at once gave its author high standing in the literary world. He began to con¬ 
tribute to a number of leading periodicals on political and literary topics, and soon 
appeared as a public lecturer and found himself one of the most notable men of 
the day. 

Mr. Parton was married in 1856 to Mrs. Sara Payson Willis Eldredge, whose 
brother, the. poet, N. P. Willis, was his former associate. Mrs. Willis was 
a popular contributor to “The New York Ledger” and other papers, under the 
pen-name of “Fanny Fern,” and Mr. Parton was soon engaged in similar work, 
and later became a member of the editorial staff of the “Ledger” and clo,sely 
associated with Mr. Robert Bonner. This was of the greatest advantage to him, as 
it furnished a steady income, while allowing him leisure in which to devote himself 
to the more serious works which were his real contribution to literature and upon 
which his fame rests. His next book was “The Life and Times of Aaron Burr,” 
which was prepared from original sources, and which made Burr a somewhat less 
offensive character than he was at that time generally thought to be. He next pre¬ 
pared a “Life of Andrew Jackson,” which finally met with great success, but which, 
being published at the beginning of the War of the Rebellion and being subscribed 
for largely in the South, involved both author and publisher in considerable imme¬ 
diate loss. For twenty years he labored upon a “Life of Voltaire,” giving to the 
study of the great European Liberal of the last century all the time and energy he 
could spare from the contributions which he must regularly supply to the “Ledger” 
and “The Youth’s Companion.” The “Life of Voltaire” was his only biography 
of a European character, and while he thought it his best work, and while it is a 
wonderful picture, not only of the life and character of the great Frenchman, but 
of manners and morals in Euro])e in the eighteenth century, the public interest 
in its subject was not so great, and its success by no means so complete as that which 
greeted his American biographies. He was greatly interested in the robust char¬ 
acter of Gen. Benjamin Butler, and his next book was the story of the administra¬ 
tion of the city of New Orleans, by him. He then offered to the public the first 
comprehensive study of the “Life and Times of Benjamin Franklin” that had 
appeared. Tliis is, by many, thought to be his best book. It was followed by a 
“Life of Jefferson,” and later by three books drawn from his contributions to 
periodicals, “Famous Americans of Recent Times,” “Noted Women of Europe and 
America,” and “Captains of Industry.” His last work was a volume uj^on 
“Andrew Jackson” for the “Great Commanders” series. 

After the death of “Fanny Fern” Mr. Parton took up his residence in New- 
buryport, Massachusetts, with Miss Eldredge, his wife’s daughter, who was charged 
with the care of an orphaned niece. This child had for several years been a 
member of his family, and had closely engaged his affection. The relations thus 
established resulted presently in tlie marriage of Mr. Parton to Miss Eldredge, a 
union, which, until his death in 1892, filled his life with joy and happiness. i\Ir. 
Parton took an active interest in the social life about him, joining frankly in every 
village enterprise and gradually acquiring very great influence in the community. 


492 


•JAMES PARTON. 


OLD VIRGINIA. 


H IIEN John Rolfe, not yet husband of 
Pocahontas, planted the first tobacco seed 
in Jamestown, in 1G12, good tobacco sold 
in London docks at five shillings a pound, or two 
hundred and fifty pounds sterling for a hogshead of 
a thousand pounds’ weight. Fatal facility of money¬ 
making ! It was this that diverted all labor, capital 
and enterprise into one channel, and caused that 
first ship-load of Negroes in the James to be so wel¬ 
come. The planter could have but one object,—to 
get more slaves in order to raise more tobacco. Hence 
the price was ever on the decline, dropping first from 
shillings to pence, and then going down the scale of 
pence, until it remained for some years at an average 
of about two pence a pound in Virginia and three pence 
in London. In Virginia it often fell below two pence ; 
as, during brief periods of scarcity, it would rise to six 
and seven pence. 

Old Virginia is a pathetic chapter in political 
economy. Old ATrginia, indeed! She reached 
decrepitude while contemporary communities were 
enjoying the first vigor of youth; while New York 
was executing the task which A’^irginia’s George 
Washington had suggested and foretold, that of con¬ 
necting the waters of the great West with the sea; 
while New England was careering gayly over the 
ocean, following the whale to his most distant retreat, 
and feeding belligerent nations with her superabun¬ 
dance. One little century of seeming prosperity; 
three generations of spendthrifts ; then the lawyer and 
sheriff! Nothing was invested, nothing saved for the 
future. There were no manufactures, no commerce, 
no towns, no internal trade, no great middle class. 
As fast as that virgin richness of soil could be con¬ 
verted into tobacco, and sold in the London docks, 
the proceeds were spent in vast, ugly mansions, 
heavy furniture, costly apparel, Aladeira wine, fine 
horses, huge coaches, and more slaves. The planters 
lived as though virgin soil were revenue, not capital. 
They tried to maintain in A'irginia the lordly style of 
English grandees, without any Birmingham, Staf- 
ordshire, Sheffield or London docks to pay for it. 
Their short-lived prosperity consisted of three ele¬ 
ments,—virgin soil, low-priced slaves, high-priced 


tobacco. The virgin soil was rapidly exhausted; 
the price of negroes was always on tjie increase; 
and the price of tobacco was always tending down¬ 
ward. Their sole chance of founding a staple com¬ 
monwealth was to invest the proceeds of their 
tobacco in something that would absorb their labor 
and yield them profit when the soil would no longer 
produce tobacco. 

But their laborers were ignorant slaves, the pos¬ 
session of whom destroyed their energy, swelled their 
pride, and dulled their understandings. Virginia’s 
case was hopeless from the day on which that Dutch 
ship landed the first twenty slaves; and, when the 
time of reckoning came, the people had nothing to 
show for their long occupation of one of the finest 
estates in the world, except great hordes of negroes, 
breeding with the rapidity of rabbits ; upon whose 
annual increase \Trginia subsisted, until the most 
glorious and beneficial of all wars set the white race 
free and gave Virginia her second opportunity. 

All this was nobody’s fault. It was a combination 
of circumstances against which the unenlightened 
human nature of that period could not possibly have 
made head. 

Few men saw anything wrong in slavery. No man 
knew much about the laws that control the prosperity 
of States. No man understood the science of agri¬ 
culture. Every one with whom those proud and 
thoughtless planters dealt plundered them, and the 
mother country discouraged every attempt of the 
colonists to manufiicture their own supplies. There 
were so many charges upon tobacco, in its course from 
the planters packing-house to the consumer’s pipe, 
that it was no very uncommon thing, in dull years, 
for the planter to receive from his agent in London, 
in return for his hogsheads of tobacco, not a pleasant 
sum of money, nor even a box of clothes, but a bill 
of charges which the price of the tobacco had not 
covered. One of the hardships of which the clergy 
complained was, that they did not “ dare ” to send 
their tobacco to London, for fear of being brought 
into debt by it, but had to sell it on the spot to specu¬ 
lators much below the London price. The old A’’ir- 
o-inia laws and records so abound in tobacco informa- 








JAMES PA ETON. 


493 


tion that we can follow a hogshead of tobacco from 
its native plantation on the James to the shop of the 
tobacconist in London. 

In the absence of farm vehicles—many planters 
who kept a coach had no wagon—each hogshead was 
attached to a pair of shafts with a horse between 
them, and “ rolled ” to a shed on the bank of the 
stream. When a ship arrived in the river from 
London, it anchored opposite each plantation which 
it served, and set ashore the portion of the cargo 
belonging to it, continuing its upward course until the 
hold was empty. Then, descending the river, it 
stopped at the different plantations, taking from each 
its hogsheads of tobacco, and the captain receiving 
long lists of articles to be bought in London with the 
proceeds of the tobacco. The rivers of Virginia, 
particularly the James and the Potomac, are wide 
and shallow, with a deep channel far from either 
shore, so that the transfer of the tobacco from the 
shore to the ship, in the general absence of landings, 
was troublesome and costly. To this day, as readers 
remember, the piers on the James present to the 
wondering passenger from the North a stretch of 
pine planks from an eighth to half a mile long. 
The ship is full at length, drops down past Newport 
News, salutes the fort upon Old Point Comfort, and 
glides out between the capes into the ocean. 

How little the planters foresaw the desolation of 
their Province is affectingly attested by many of the 
relics of their brief affluence. They built their 
parish churches to last centuries, like the churches to 
which they were accustomed “ at home.” In neighbor¬ 


hoods where now a congregation of fifty persons could 
not be collected, there are ruins of churches that 
were evidently built for the accommodation of nu¬ 
merous and wealthy communities ; a forest, in some 
instances, has grown up all around them, making it 
difficult to get near the imperishable walls. Some¬ 
times the wooden roof has fallen in, and one huge 
tree, rooted among the monumental slabs of the 
middle aisle, has filled all the interior. Other old 
churches long stood solitary in old fields, the roof 
sound, but the door standing open, in which the 
beasts found nightly shelter, and into which the pass¬ 
ing horseman rode and sat on his horse before the 
altar till the storm passed. Others have been used 
by farmers as wagon-houses, by fishermen to hang 
their seines in, by gatherers of turpentine as store¬ 
houses. One was a distillery, and another was a 
barn. A poor drunken wretch reeled for shelter into 
an abandoned church of Chesterfield County—the 
county of the first Jeffersons—and he died in a 
drunken sleep at the foot of the reading-desk, where 
he lay undiscovered until his face was devoured by 
rats. An ancient font was found doing duty as a 
tavern punch-bowl; and a tombstone, which served 
as the floor of an oven, used to print memorial words 
upon loaves of bread. Fragments of richly-colored 
altar-pieces, fine pulpit-cloths, and pieces of old car¬ 
ving used to be preserved in farm-houses and shown 
to visitors. When the late Bishop Meade began his 
rounds, forty years ago, elderly people would bring to 
him sets of communion-plate and single vessels which 
had once belonged to the parish church, long deserted, 
and beg him to take charge of them. 








WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT. 

HISTORIAN OF THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO AND PERU. 

T MAY well be doubted whether any other historian was ever so 
loved both by those who knew him personally and by those who 
counted themselves fortunate in knowing him through his books as 
was AVhlliam H. Prescott. Indeed that love promises to be peren¬ 
nial, for “The Conquest of Mexico” and “The Conquest of Peru” 
continue to be the delight of the intelligent schoolboy and bid fair 
to maintain their hold upon public interest in succeeding genei'ations. 

Pi’escott was a native of Salem, Massachusetts, having been born in that city on 
the 4th of May, 1706. His father was a lawyer, and he inheilted from him literary 
tastes, love of learning and great mental vigor. He was accidentally struck, while 
a Junior at Harvard, by a })iece of hard bread, thrown by a fellow student, and the 
blow deprived him forever of the use of his left eye, gave him many months of 
tedious suffering in darkened rooms, and resulted in such serious damage to the 
other eye as to make it of little and constantly decreasing use to him. He had in¬ 
tended to be a lawyer, but this accident made another choice necessary. He de¬ 
liberately resolved upon a literary career and prepared himself for it in the most 
thorough and painstaking way imaginable. A memorandum dated October, 1<S21, 
lays out a course of study which one might think unnecessary for a graduate of Har¬ 
vard College, but which he undertook for tlie purpose of perfecting his style, and 
with what degree of success the universal admiration of his works well testifies. 
It was as follows: 

“ 1. Principles of Grammar,' correct writing, etc. 

2 . Compendious history of Yorth America. 

3. Fine prose-writers of English. 

4. Latin classics one hour a day.” 

This course, omitting the American history, he faithfully pursued for about a year, 
when he took up the study of French and, later, of German. His study of Spanish 
and consequently his choice of the topics of his great works came about almost 
accidentally. He had found the study of German very difficult, so much so that he 
was in despair. His friend George Ticknor had delivered to the Senior Class at 
Harvard a series of lectures on Spanish literature, and, to divert and entertain him 
du ring a period of discouragement and of suffering from his eyes, proposed to read 
the lectures to him. He was so delighted with the subject that he immediately 
began the study of the language with the result that the'remainder of his life was 

494 













willia:m hickling prescott. 


495 


devoted to Spanish subjects. Prescott had married, in 1820, to Miss Susan Amory, 
the daughter of a cultivated and successful Boston mei’chant, and of the marriage 
he said, near the close of his life, “contrary to the assertion of a French philosopher 
who says tliat the most fortunate husband finds reason to regret his condition at least 
once in twenty-four hours,—I may truly say that I have found no such day in the 
(juarter of a century that Providence has spared us to each other.” Mrs. Prescott 
was devoted to her husband, and until his death in 1859, was his continual support, 
adviser and assistant. 

The account of his method of composition is told in one of his letters; “In the 
Christmas of 1837 my first work, ‘The History of Ferdinand and Isabella,’ was 
given to the world. I obtained the services of a reader who knew no language but 
his own, (English). I taught him to pronounce Castilian in a manner suited, I sus- 



MR. Prescott’s house at pepperett, mass. 


pect, more to mij ear than to that of a Spaniard, and we began our wearisome 
journey through Mariana’s noble (Spanish) history. I cannot even now call to 
mind without a smile the tedious hours in which, seated under some old trees in my 
country residence, we jnirsued our slow and melancholy way over pages which 
attbrded no glimmering of light to him, and from which the light came dimly strug¬ 
gling to me through a half intelligible vocabulary. But in a few weeks the light 
became stronger, and I was cheered by the consciousness of my own improvement, 
and when we had toiled our way through seven quartos, I found I could understand 
the book when read about two-thirds as fast as ordinary English. jMy reader’s 
office required the more patience; he had not even this result to cheer him in his 
labor. I now felt that the great difficulty could be overcome, and I obtained the 
services of a reader whose acquaintance with modern and ancient tongues supplied, 




496 


WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT. 


as far as it could be supplied, the defieieiicv of eyesight on my part. But tliough 
in this way I could examine various authorities, it was not easy to ari-ange in my 
mind the results of my reading drawn from different and often contradictory accounts. 
To do this I dictated copious notes as I went along, and when 1 had read enough 
for a chapter (from tliirty to forty, and sometimes fifty pages in length), I had a 
mass of memoranda in my own language, which would easily bring before me in 
one view, the fruit of my researches. These notes were carefully read to me, and 
while my recent studies were fresh in my recollection, 1 ran over the whole of any 
intended chapter in my mind. This process I repeated at least half a dozen times, 
so that when I finally ])ut my pen to paper it ran off pretty glibly for it was an 
effort of memory rather than composition. 

Writing presented me a difficulty even greater than reading. Thierry, the famous 
blind historian of the Norman conquest, advised me to cultivate dictation; but I 
usually preferred a substitute that 1 found in a writing-case made for the blind 
which I procured in London, forty years since. It consists of a frame of the size 
of a sheet of paper, traversed by brass wires, as many as lines ai-e wanted on the 
page, and with a sheet of carbonated paper, such as is used for getting duplicates, 
pasted on the reverse side. With an ivory or agate stylus the wndter traces his char¬ 
acters between the wires on the carbonated sheet, making indelible marks, which he 
cannot see, on the white page below. This treadmill operation has its defects; and 
I have repeatedly supposed I had accomplished a good jiage, and was proceeding in 
all the glow of composition to go ahead, when I found I had forgotten to insert a 
sheet of writing-paper below, that my labor had all been thrown away, and that the 
leaf looked as blank as myself. Notwithstanding these and other whimsical dis¬ 
tresses of the kind, I have found my writing-case my best friend in my lonely 
hours, and with it have written nearly all that I have sent into the world the last 
forty years.” 

Prescott’s writings were successful from the first. Translations of the “History 
of Ferdinand and Isabella” appeared within a few years in French, German, 
Spanish, Italian and Russian, and it is surely no wonder that the author took up 
with a good heart the preparation of a “History of the Conquest of Mexico,” and 
then a “History of the Conquest of Peru,” both of which were received with the 
same appreciation that had rewarded his first published work. 

He had spent some time abroad before his marriage, partly in the hope of bene- 
fitting his eyesight. In 1850 he again visited England and spent some time on the 
continent. He wrote a number of miscellaneous articles for magazines and review^s, 
and publishkl in 1855, two, and in 1858 the third volume of his uncompleted 
“History of the Reign of Philip H., King of Spain.” This, had he lived to 
complete it, would doubtless have been his greatest work. It was received with 
such favor that six months after the publication of the first two volumes, eight 
thousand copies had been sold and the sales of his other works had been so stimu¬ 
lated as to bring the total up to thirty thousand volumes during that time, which 
yielded the author the substantial royalty of seventeen thousand dollars. 

A slight stroke of paralysis had already enfeebled him, and a second terminated 
his life on the 28th of January, 1859. JHis wife, one daughter, and two sons sur¬ 
vived him. 


WILLIAM IIICKLING PRESCOTT. 


497 


Few men have combined so many engagino- qualities. His blindness had made 
no change in his appearance, and he was thought to be one of the handsomest men 
of his time. His cheerfulness of disposition was so great that at the time of his 
most intense sutfering he addressed those who cared for him with such brightness 
and consideration that one might have thought their positions reversed. The per¬ 
sonal friends who were won by his grace of manner and by the sterling worth of 
his character have nearly all passed away, but the hoi)e that he early expressed, 
“to produce something which posterity would not willingly let die,” was most 
abundantly realized. 


THE GOLDEN AGE OF TEZCUCO. 
(prom history of conquest of MEXICO, 1843.) 


HE first measure of Nezahualeoyotl, on 
returning to his dominions, was a general 
amnesty. It was his maxim “ that a 
monarch might punish, hut revenge was unworthy 
of him.” In the present instance he was averse 
even to punish, and not only freely pardoned his 
rebel nobles, but conferred on some, who had most 
deeply offended, posts of honor and confidence. 
Such conduct was doubtless politic, especially as 
their alienation was owing probably, much more to 
fear of the usurper than to any disaffection towards 
himself. But there are some acts of policy which a 
magnanimous spirit only can execute. 

The restored monarch next set about repairing the 
damages sustained under the late misrule, and reviv¬ 
ing, or ratlier remodelling, the various departments 
of government. He framed a concise, but compre¬ 
hensive, code of laws, so well suited, it was thought, 
to the exigencies of the times, that it was adopted 
as their own by the two other members of the triple 
alliance. It was written in blood, and entitled the 
author to be called the Draco rather than “ the Solon 
of Anahuac,” as he is fondly styled by his admirers. 
Humanity is one of the best fruits of refinement. 
It is only with increasing civilization that the legisla¬ 
tor studies to economize human suffering, even for 
the guilty; to devise penalties not so much by way 
of punishment for the past as of reformation for the 
future. 

He divided the burden of the government among 
a number of departments, as the council of war, the 
council of finance, the council of ju.stice. This la.st 
was a court of supreme authority, both in civil and 

32 


criminal matters, receiving appeals from the lower 
tribunals of the provinces, which were obliged to 
make a full report, every four months, or eighty days, 
of their own proceedings to this higher judicature. 
In all these bodies, a certain number of citizens were 
allowed to have seats with the nobles and professional 
dignitaries. There was, however, another body, a 
council of state, for aiding the king in the dispatch 
of bu.siness, and advising him in matters of importance, 
which was drawn altogether from the highest order 
of chiefs. It consisted of fourteen members; and 
they had seats provided for them at the royal table. 
Lastly, there was an extraordinary tribunal, called 
the council of music, but which differing from the 
import of its name, was devoted to the encourage¬ 
ment of science and art. Works on astronomy, 
chronology, historv or any other science, were required 
to be submitted to its judgment, before they could 
be made public. This censorial power was of some 
moment, at least with regard to the historical depart¬ 
ment, where the wilful perversion of truth was made 
a capital ofience by the bloody code of Nezahual- 
coyotl. Yet a Tezcucan author must have been a 
bungler, who could not elude a conviction under the 
cloudy veil of hieroglyphics. This body, which was 
drawn from the best instructed persons in the king¬ 
dom, with little regard to rank, had supervision of all 
the productions of art, and the nicer fabrics. It 
decided on the qualifications of the professors in the 
various branches of science, on the fidelity of their 
instructions to their pupils, the deficiency of-which 
was severely punished, and it instituted examinations 
of these latter. In short, it was a general board of 







498 


WILLIAM IIICKLING PRESCOTT. 


education for the country. On stated days, histori¬ 
cal compositions, and poems treating of moral or 
traditional topics, were recited before it by their 
authors. Seats were provided for the three crowuied 
heads of the empire, who deliberated with the other 
members on the respective merits of the pieces, and 
distributed prizes of value to the successful com¬ 
petitors. 

The influence of this academy must have been 
most propitious to the capital, which became the 
nursery not only of such sciences as could be com- 
pa.sscd by the scholarship of the period, but of various 
useful and ornamental arts. Its historians, orators, 
and poets were celebrated throughout the country. 
Its archives, for which accommodations were provided 
in the royal palaces, were stored with the records of 
primitive ages. Its idiom, more polished than the 
^Mexican, was, indeed, the purest of all the Nahuatlac 
dialects, and continued, long after the Conquest, to 
be that in which the best productions of the native 
races w'ere composed. Tezcuco claimed the glory of 
being the Athens of the Western world. 

Among the most illustrious of her bards was the em¬ 
peror himself,—for the Tezcucan writers claim this 
title for their chief, as head of the imperial alliance. 
He doubtless appeared as a competitor before that 
very academy wdiere he so often sat as a critic. 
iMany of his odes descended to a late generation, and 
are still preserved, perhaps, in some of the dusty re¬ 
positories of Mexico or Spain. The historian 
Ixtlilxochitl has left a translation, in Castilian, of one 
of the poems of his royal ancestor. It is not easy 
to render his version into corresponding English 
rhyme, without the perfume of the original escaping 
in this double filtration. They remind one of the 
rich breathings of Spanish-Arab poetry, in which an 
ardent imagination is tempered by a not unpleasing 
and moral melancholy. But, though sufficiently 
florid in diction, they are generally free from the 
meretricious ornaments and hyperbole with which the 
minstrelsy of the East is usually tainted. They turn 


on the vanities and mutability of human life.—a 
topic very natural for a monarch who had himself 
experienced the strangest mutations of fortune. 
There is mingled in the lament of the Tezcucan bard, 
however, an Epicurean philosoj)hy, which seeks relief 
from the fears of the future in the joys of the pre¬ 
sent. “ Banish care,” he says; “ if there are bounds 
to pleasure, the saddest of life must also have an end. 
Then weave the chaplet of flowers, and sing thy songs 
in praise of the all-powerful God; for the glory of 
tliis world soon fadeth away. Bejoice in the green 
freshness of thy spring ; for the day will come when 
thou shalt sigh for these joys in vain ; when the 
sceptre shall pass from thy hands, thy servants shall 
wander desolate in thy courts, thy sons, a'nd tlie sons 
of thy nobles, shall drink the dregs of distre.ss, and 
all the pomp of thy victories and triumphs shall live 
only in their recollection. Yet the remembrance of 
the just shall not pass away from the nations, and 
the good thou hast done shall ever be held in honor-. 
The goods of this life, its glories and its riches, are 
but lent to us, its suhstance is but an illusory shadow, 
and the things of to-day .shall change on the coming 
of the morrow. Then gather the fiiirest flowers 
from thy gardens, to bind round thy brow, and seize 
the joys of the present ere they perish.” 

But the hours of the Tezcucan monarch wei-e not 
all passed in idle dalliance with the IMuse, nor in the 
sober contemplations of philosojthy, as at a later 
period. In the freshness of youth and early man¬ 
hood he led the allied armies in their annual expedi¬ 
tions, which were certain to result in a wider extent 
of territory to the empire. In the intervals of peace 
he fostered those productive arts which are the surest 
sources of public prosperity. lie encouraged agri¬ 
culture above all; and there was scarcely a spot so 
rude, or a steep so inaccessible, as not to confess the 
power of cultivation. The land was covered with a 
busy population, and towns and cities sprang up in 
places since deserted or dwindled into mi.serable vil¬ 
lages. 





JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY. 

HISTOEIAN AXD DIPLOMATIST. 


jOTLEY’S history of the “Rise of the Dutch Republic” is, in some 
1 important respects, America’s greatest contribution to historical litera- 
I ture. Its author was the son of a New England merchant of literary 
I tastes, and inherited through both parents some of the best blood of 
New England. He was born in Dorchester, Massachusetts, now 
a part of Boston, April lo, 1814. He was a delicate boy, but 
vigorous, vivacious, fond of outdoor sports and intellectual contests. He was a 
boyish friend of Wendell Phillips, and was early associated with many of that group 
of New England scholars who have done so much for American literature during 
the past half-century. Motley was educated at good schools near Boston, and 
entered Harvard at what would now seem the ridiculously early age of thirteen. 
He cared too much for general and voluminous reading to do thorough work in the 
prescribed college course, but his wit, his brilliant mind and his impulsive generosity 
made him a general favorite. After graduating from Harvard he studied in Ger¬ 
many, becoming acquainted at Gottingen with Bismarck, between whom and him¬ 
self there sprang up an intimate friendship which was renewed at every opportunity 
throughout his life. Bismarck said of him that “The most striking feature of his 
handsome and delicate appearance was uncommonly large and beautiful eyes. He 
never entered a drawing-room without exciting the curiosity and sympathy of the 
ladies.” He was married in 1837 to Mary, sister of Park Benjamin, a most attrac¬ 
tive and beautiful woman, and two years later he published an historical novel 
called “Morton’s Hope.” Neither this book nor tmother called “Merry Mount” 
proved a success, and both Motley and his friends were convinced that his real field 
of work was that of the historian. His first attempt in this direction was an essay 
published in the “North American Review” on the “Polity of the Puritans,” which 
not only demonstrated his skill and ability but gave expression to his intense love 
of liberty and to his lofty patriotism. 

An interesting episode in Motley’s life was his election in 1849 to the Massachu¬ 
setts House of Representatives. He does not seem to have been well adapted for a 
legislator and never sought a re-election. The incident which he most vividly 
remembered in this connection was his careful preparation of a report from the Com¬ 
mittee on Education, of which he was chairman, proposing measures which he had 
convinced himself were for the best, and the apparent ease with which a country 
member. Geo. S. Boutwell, who afterwards distinguished himself in the field of 

499 





























500 


JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY. 


national politics, demolished his arguments, and convinced everybody, including the 
author of the report of the opposite view. 

Mr. Motley began the collection of materials for his “ History of Holland ” about 
1846. He devoted ten years to its preparation, making careful researches at Berlin, 
Dresden, the Hague and Brussels. When finally he had brought it to a conclusion 
he did not find it easy to make satisfactory arrangements for its publication. The 
leading house in London declined it, and it was finally published at the expense of 
the author. It was another and most marked example of the occasional lack of 
insight on the part of the wisest and best trained publishers, for the book which had 
gone begging to be printed was received everywhere with acclamations. Guizot, 
perhaps the foremost historian of modern times, personally supervised the translation 
into French, and wrote the introduction. The book had a large sale on bofn sides 
of the Atlantic, and Mr. Motley was at once recognized as a great historian. Mr. 
Froude has very justly said that this history is as “ complete as industry and genius 
can make it,” and “one which will take its place among the finest stories in this or 
any other language.” Motley lived for the next two years in Boston, taking much 
interest in the “ Atlantic Monthly,” though he was too much engaged with historical 
study to contribute very frequently to its columns. In 1858 he returned to England, 
where he lived for most of his remaining life, visiting America only three times, 
» and making on each occasion a comparatively short stay. He found residence 
abroatl more convenient for historical research. His position in English society was 
an enviable one, and his daughters were all married to Englishmen, one of them to 
Sir William Vernon Harcourt. This residence in England, however, did not wean 
his heart from America or its institutions or make him any less an ardent patriot, and 
perhaps he never rendered his country a more signal service than when, on finding 
that the higher classes in England sympathized with the South, he addressed two 
letters to the London “ Times,” which did much to bring about a change of sentiment, 
and which remained as monuments to his loyalty and to his ability as an advocate. 

Mr. Motley had been appointed Secretary of the American Legation at St. Peters¬ 
burg in 1841, but had found the climate too rigorous and had continued at his post 
only a few months before tendering his resignation. He was now to undertake a 
more serious task in diplomacy. President Lincoln appointed him, in 1861, Minister 
to Austria. He was so absorbed in the great struggle going on in his own country 
that he gave up for the time the historical studies which made so large a part of his 
ordinary life, and “ lived only in the varying fortunes of the day, his profound faith 
and enthusiasm sustaining him and lifting him above the natural infiuence of a by 
no means sanguine temperament.” He continued Minister to Austria, performing 
the difficult service of that office with discretion and with credit until 1867, when, in 
consequence of a letter received by President Johnson from some obscure source, 
inquiries were made which Mr. Motley considered insulting, and he at once ten¬ 
dered his resignation. 

He had published in 1860 two volumes of his “History of the United Nether¬ 
lands,” and they had been received with all the favor that had greeted his former 
great work. The American war had delayed the completion of the book, but in 
1868 he published the other two volumes. An article from the “ Edinburgh 
Beview discussing the first two volumes says : “ Mr. Motley combines as an his- 


JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY. 


501 

torian two qualifications seldom found united—to a great capacity for historical 
research he adds much power of pictorial representation.” 

This is the secret of his great success. Men who excel in the use of language are 
too often unwilling to undertake the drudgery which research entails, while those 
who are able and willing to read voluminous correspondence and con over number¬ 
less dispatches in order to establish some historical fact, are frequently unable to 
clothe the fact in words which will so illumine and illustrate the truth as to make it 
really live in the mind of the reader. That Motley possessed both of these abilities 
along with those others which made him to a very wide circle in both Europe and 
America a much loved man, is sufficient reason for the place that has been given 
him in the history of men of letters. 

Probably, at the request of Senator, Sumner Mr. Motley was in 1869 appointed 
Minister to England. The position was in many respects most agreeable to him. 
It gave him a post of great influence in a society in wdiicli he was known and 
admired, and opened possibilities of high service to the country which he loved 
with an ardor that amounted to enthusiasm. The Alabama claims were being urged 
upon the British Government, and the difficulties and responsibilities were very great. 
He was suddenly recalled in 1870 under circumstances that wounded him so deeply 
that it may be said he never recovered from the cruel surprise. The most probable 
explanation of President Grant’s course seems to be that it was the outcome of his 
difficulty with Mr. Sumner over his San Domingo policy, and that Mr. Motley’s 
tastes and the pursuits to which he had devoted his life made him a man with whom 
the President could not in any large measure sympathize. When, therefore, the Presi¬ 
dent found his favorite measure defeated largely by the influence of Mr. Sumner, he 
ceased to have cause to retain Mr. Sunjner’s friend in so responsible a post. The 
whole matter looks, at this distance, discreditable, but it was probably the system of 
political favoritism then in vogue rather than either the President or his Secretary of 
State that was to blame. 

Mr. Motley had intended to devote his last years to a “ History of the Thirty 
Years’ War,” but before undertaking it he wrote “The Life and Death of John 
of Barneveld, Advocate of Holland, with a View of the Primary Causes and Move¬ 
ments of the Thirty Years’ War,” which has been recognized as the most classical 
of his productions. It was his last work. Even before the death of Mrs. Motley in 
1874, he was in somewhat feeble health, and while he did not abandon literary 
labor, he gave up at this time any hope of being able to engage in protracted effort. 
He spent a part of the year 1875 in Boston, returning to his daughter’s residence 
in Devonshire, where he died in 1877. Dean Stanley spoke of him as “ one of the 
brightest lights of the Western Hemisphere, the high-spirited patriot, the faithful 
friend of England’s best and purest spirits; the brilliant, the indefatigable his¬ 
torian.” A distinguished countryman of his own had once introduced him to an 
audience as one “ whose name belongs to no single country and to no single age; as 
a statesman and diplomatist and patriot, be belongs to America ; as a scholar, to the 
world of letters; as a historian, all ages will claim him in the future.” 


502 


JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY. 


THE &IEGE ' 

H IEANTIME, the besieged city was at its last 
I gasp. The burghers had been in a state 
I of uncertainty for many days ; being aware 
that the fleet had set forth for their relief, but know¬ 
ing full well the thousand obstacles which it had to 
surmount. They had guessed its progress by the 
illumination from the blazing villages ; they had heard 
its salvos of artillery on its arrival at North Aa; but 
since then all had been dark and mournful again, 
hope and fear, in sickening alternation, distracting 
every breast. They knew that the wind was un¬ 
favorable, and at the dawn of each day every eye 
was turned wistfully to the vanes of the steejiles. So 
long as the easterly breeze prevailed, they felt, as 
they anxiously stood on towers and housetops, that 
they must look in vain for the welcome ocean. Yet, 
while thus patiently waiting, they were literally star¬ 
ving ; for even the misery endured at Harlem had not 
reached that depth and intensity of agony to which 
Leyden was now reduced. Bread, malt-cake, horse¬ 
flesh, had entirely disappeared ; dogs, cats, rats and 
other vermin were esteemed luxuries. A small 
number of cows, kept as long as possible for their 
milk, still remained ; but a few were killed from day 
to day, and distributed in minute proportions, hardly 
sufficient to support life among the famishing popula¬ 
tion. Starving wretches swarmed daily around the 
shambles where these cattle were slaughtered, con¬ 
tending for any morsel which might fall, and lapping 
eagerly the blood as it ran along the pavement; 
while the hides, chopped and boiled, were greedily 
devoured. Women and children, all day long, were 
seen searching gutters and dunghills for morsels of 
food, which they disputed fiercely with the famish¬ 
ing dogs. The green leaves were stripped from 
the trees, every living herb was converted into 
human food ; but these expedients could not avert 
starvation. The daily mortality was frightful; in¬ 
fants starved to death on the maternal breasts 
which famine had parched and withered ; mothers 
dropped dead in the streets, with their dead children 
in their arms. In many a house the watchmen, in 
their rounds, found a whole family of corpses— 
father, mother, children, side by side ; for a disorder 
called the plague, naturally engendered of hardship 
and famine, now came, as if in kindness, to abridge 

* Copyright, J. 


)F LEYDEN.* 

the agony of the people. The pestilence stalked at 
noonday through the city, and the doomed in¬ 
habitants, fell like grass beneath its scythe. From 
six thousand to eight thousand human beings sank 
before this scourge alone ; yet the people resolutely 
held out,—women and men mutually encouraging 
each other to resist the entrance of their foreign 
foe,—an evil more horrible than pest or famine. 

Leyden was sublime in its despair. A few mur¬ 
murs were, however, occasionally heard at the stead¬ 
fastness of the magistrates, and a dead body was 
placed at the door of the burgomaster, as a silent 
witness against his inflexibility. A party of the more 
faint-hearted even as.sailed the heroic Adrian A an 
der Werf with threats and reproaches as he j)assed 
through the streets. A crowd had gathered around 
him as he reached a triangular jflace in the centre of 
the town, into which many of the principal streets 
emptied themselves, and upon one side of which stood 
the church of Saint Pancras. There stood the burgo¬ 
master, a tall, haggard, imposing figure, with dark 
visage and a tranquil but commanding eye. He 
waved his broad-leaved felt hat for silence, and then 
exclaimed, in language which has been almost literally 
pre.served, “ What would ye, my friends ? Why do 
ye murmur that we do not break our vows and sur- 
tender the city to the Spaniards ?—a fate more horrible 
than the agony which .she now endures. I tell you I 
have made an oath to hold the city ; and may God 
give me strength to keep my oath ! I can die but 
once, whether by your hands, the enemy’s, or by the 
hand of God. My own fate is indifferent to me ; not 
so that of the city intrusted to my care. I know 
that we shall starve if not soon relieved ; but starva¬ 
tion is preferable to the dishonored death which is 
the only alternative. Your menaces move me not; 
my life is at your disposal; here is my sword, plunge 
it into my breast, and divide my flesh among you. 
Take my body to appease your hunger, but expect no 
surrender so long as I remain alive.” 

On the 28th of September a dove flew into the 
city, bringing a letter from Admiral Boisot. In this 
dispatch the position of the fleet at North Aa was 
described in encouraging terms, and the inhabitants 
were assured that, in a very few days at furthest, the 
long-expected relief would enter their gates. The 
jewis Stackpole. 






. JOHX LOTHROP MOTLEY. 


503 


tempest came to their relief. A violent equinoctial 
gale on the night of the 1st and 2d of October came 
storming from the northwest, shifting after a few 
hours full eight points, and then blowing still more 
violently from the southwest. The waters of the 
North Sea were piled in vast masses upon the 
southern coast of Holland, and then dashed furiously 
landward, the ocean rising over the earth and sweep¬ 
ing with unrestrained power across the ruined dykes. 
In the course of twenty-four hours the fleet at North 


Aa, instead of nine inches, had more than two feet of 
water. ... On it went, sweeping over the 
broad waters which lay between Zoeterwoude and 
Zwieten ; as they approached some shallows which 
led into the great mere, the Zealanders dashed into 
the sea, and with sheer strength shouldered every 
vessel through. ... On again the fleet of 
Boisot still went, and, overcoming every obstacle’ 
entered the city on the morning of the 3d of October. 
Leyden was relieved. 


ASSASSINATION OF WILLIAM OF ORANGE. 

(from “ RISE OF THE DUTCH REPUBLIC.”) 


N Tuesday, the 10th of July, 1584, at about 
half-past twelve, the Prince, with his wife 
on his arm, and followed by the ladies and 
gentlemen of his family, was going to the dining-room. 
William the Silent was dressed upon that day, accord¬ 
ing to his usual custom, in a very plain fa.shion. He 
wore a wide-leaved hat of dark felt, with a silken cord 
round the crown, such as had been worn by the “ Beg¬ 
gars ” in the early days of the revolt. A high ruff en¬ 
circled his neck from which also depended one of the 
Beggars’ medals with the motto, ‘^Fidele Jusqu' d la 
hesace while a .loose surcoat of gray frieze cloth, 
over a tawny leather doublet, with wide-slashed un¬ 
derclothes, completed his costume. Gerard presented 
him-self at the doorway, and demanded a passport, 
which the Prince directed his secretary to make out 
for him. . . . 

At two o’clock the company rose from the table. 
The Prince led the way, intending to pass to his 
private apartments above. The dining-room, which 
was on the ground floor, opened into a little, square 
vestibule, which communicated through an arched 
pa.ssage-way with the main entrance into the court¬ 
yard. The vestibule was also directly at the foot of 
the wooden staircase leading to the next floor, and 
was scarcely six feet in width. Upon its left side, as 


one approached the stairway, was an obscure arch 
sunk deep in the wall, and completely in shadow of 
the door. Behind this arch a portal opened to the 
narrow lane at the side of the house. The stairs 
themselves were completely lighted by a large window 
half-way up the flight. 

The Prince came from the dining-room, and began 
leisurely to ascend. He had only reached the second 
stair, when a man emerged from the sunken arch, 
and, standing within a foot or two of him, discharged 
a pistol full at his heart. Three balls entered his 
body, one of which, passing quite through him, 
struck with violence upon the wall beyond. The 
Prince exclaimed in French, as he felt the wound; 
“ 0 my God, have mercy upon my soul! 0 my God, 
have mercy upon this poor people ! ” These were the 
last words he ever spake, save that when his sister 
immediately afterwards asked him if he commended 
his soul to Jesus Christ, he faintly answered, “ Yes.” 
His master-of-horse had caught him in his arms as 
the fatal shot was fired. 

The Prince was then placed on the stairs for an 
instant, when he immediately began to swoon. He 
was afterwards laid upon a couch in the dining-room, 
where in a few minutes he breathed his last in the 
arms of his wife and sister. 









HENKY WHEELER SHAW. 
(“josh billings.”) 


is astonishing what effect is produced by peculiarities of form or 
manner. It may be true that the writings of Thomas Carlyle owe 
much of their force and vigor to his disregard for grammatical rules 
and his peculiar arrangement of words and sentences; but one of the 
most surprising instances of this kind is in the fact that the “Essay 
on the Mule, by Josh Billings,” received no attention whatever, 
while the same contribution transformed into the “Essa on the Muel, hi Josh 
Billings,” was eagerly copied by almost every paper in the country. Josh Billings 
once said that “Chaucer was a great poit, but he couldn’t spel,” and apparently it 
was Mr. fehaw’s likeness, in this respect, to the author of “Canterbury Tales” 
which won him much of his fame. 

He was the sou of a member of the Massachusetts Legislature, born in 1818, 
and entered Hamilton College; but being captivated by stories of Western life and 
adventure, abandoned college to seek his fortune in the West. The fortune was 
slow in coming, and he worked as a laborer on steamboats on the Ohio, and as a 
farmer, and finally drifted back to Poughkeepsie, New York, as an auctioneer. 
Here he wrote his first contribution to a periodical, “The Essa on the Muel,” which 
has been above mentioned. 

Ihe popularity of the revised form of this classic of ]>oor spelling induced him 
to publish “Josh Billings’ larmers’ Allminax,” which continued for ten vears, 
having during a part of the time a cii-culation of one hundred and twenty-seveii 
thousand copies per annum. In 1863 jMr. Shaw entered the lecture-field. His 
lectures being a series of pithy sayings without care (U- order, delivered in an 
apparently awkward manner. The quaintness and drollery of his discourse won* 
very great jiopularity. For twenty years he was a regular contributor of “The 
ISYw \ork Weekly,” and it is said that the articles which appeared in “The 
Century Magazine,” under the signature of “Uncle Esek,” were his. His published 
books are “Josh Billings, His Sayings;” “Josh Billings on Ice;” “Evervbody’s 
Iriend;” “Josh Billings’ Complete Works,” and “Josh Billings’ Spice Box.” 

Mr. Shaw died in Monterey, California, in 1885. 

504 

























»iuycoB y 


JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 























HENRY WHEELER SHAW. 


505 


JOSH BILLING’S ADVERTISEMENT. 
(from “ JOSH BILLINGS, HIS WORKS.” 1876.) 


KAN sell for eighteen hundred and thirty- 
nine dollars a pallas, a sweet and pensive 
retirement, lokated on the virgin hanks ov 
the Hudson, kontaining eighty-five acres. The land 
is luxuriously divided by the hand of natur and art 
into pastor and tillage, into plain and deklivity, into 
stern abruptness, and the dallianse ov moss-tufted 
medder; streams ov sparkling gladness (thick with 
trout) danse through this wilderness ov buty tew 
the low musik ov the kricket and grasshopper. The 
evergreen sighs as the evening sephir flits through its 
shadowy buzzum, and the aspen trembles like the 
luv-smitten harte ov a damsell. Fruits ov the tropicks, 
in golden buty, melt on the bows, and the bees go 
heavy and sweet from the fields to their garnering 
hives. The manshun is ov Parian marble ; the porch 
iz a single diamond, set with rubiz and the mother ov 
pearl; the floors are ov rosewood, and the ceilings are 
more butiful than the starry vault of heaven. Hot 
and cold water bubbles and quirts in evry apartment, 
and nothing is wanting that a poet could pra for. or 


art could portray. The stables are worthy of the 
steeds ov Nimrod or the studs ov Akilles, and its 
hennery waz bilt expressly for the birds of paradice 
while sombre in the distance, like the cave ov a 
hermit, glimpses are caught ov the dorg-house. Here 
poets hav cum and warbled their laze—here skulptors 
hav cut, here painters hav robbed the scene ov dreamy 
landscapes, and here the philosopher diskovered the 
stun which made him the alkimist ov natur. Next, 
northward ov this thing ov buty, sleeps the resi¬ 
dence and domain ov the Duke, John Smith, while 
southward, and nearer the spice-breathing tropicks, 
may be seen the barronial villy ov Earl Brown and 
the Duchess, Widder Betsy Stevens. Walls ov 
primitiff rock, laid in Roman cement, bound the 
estate, while upward and downward the eye catches 
the magesta and slow grander ov the Hudson. As 
the young moon hangs like a cutting ov silver from 
the blue brest ov the ski, an angel may be seen each 
night dansing with golden tiptoes on the green. (N. 
B.—This angel goes with the place.) 



MANIFEST 

ANIFESS destiny iz the science ov going 
tew bust, or enny other place before yu git 
thare. I may be rong in this centiment, 
but that iz the w'ay it strikes me ; and i am so put 
together that when enny thing strikes me i imme- 
jiately strike back. IManifess destiny mite perhaps 
be blocked out agin as the condishun that man and 
things find themselfs in with a ring in their nozes 
and sumboddy hold ov the ring. I may be rong agin, 
but if i am, awl i have got tew sa iz i don’t kno it, 
and what a man don’t kno ain’t no damage tew enny 
buddy else. The tru way that manifess destiny had 
better be sot down iz the exact distance that a frog 
kan jump down hill with a striped snake after him ; i 
don’t kno but i may be rong onst more, but if the 
frog don’t git ketched the destiny iz jist what he iz 
a looking for. 

When a man falls into the bottom ov a well and 
makes up hiz minde tew stay thare, that ain’t mani¬ 
fess destiny enny more than having yure hair cut short 


DESTINY. 

iz; but if he almost gits out and then falls down in 
agin 16 foot deeper and brakes off hiz neck twice in 
the same plase and dies and iz buried thare at low 
water, that iz manifess destiny on the square. Stand¬ 
ing behind a cow in fly time and gitting kicked twice 
at one time must feel a good deal like manifess 
de.stiny. Being about 10 seckunds tew late tew git 
an express train, and then chasing the train with yure 
wife, and an urnbreller in yure hands, in a hot day, 
and not getting as near tew the train az you waz 
when .started, looks a leetle like manifess destiny 
on a rale rode trak. Going into a tempranse house 
and calling for a leetle old Bourbon on ice, and being 
told in a mild way that “ the Bourbon iz jist out, but 
they hav got sum gin that cost 72 cents a gallon in 
Paris,” sounds tew me like the manifess destiny ov 
most tempranse houses. 

]\Ii dear reader, don’t beleave in manifess destiny 
until yu see it. Thare is such a thing az manifess 
destiny, but when it occurs it iz like the number ov 















HENRY WHEELER SHAW. 


506 


rings on the rakoon’s tale, ov no great conseqiiense i cord ov dri hickory wood, i thought i had it onse; 


onla for ornament. Man wan’t made for a machine, 
if he waz, it was a locomotiff machine, and manifess 
destiny must git oph from the trak when the hell 
rings or git knocked higher than the price ov gold. 
Manifess destiny iz a disseaze, hut it iz eazy tew heal; 
i have seen it in its wust stages cured hi sawing a 


it broke out in the shape ov poetry; i sent a speci- 
ment ov the disseaze tew a magazine ; the magazine 
man wrote me next day az follers : 

“ Dear Sur: You may be a phule, but you are no 
poeck. Yures, in haste.’’ 


-•o-* — 

LETTERS TO FARxMERS. 


ELOVED FARMERS: Agrikultur iz the 
I mother ov farm produce; she is also the 

step-mother ov gardin sass. 

Rize at half-past 2 o’clock in the morning, bild up 
a big fire in the kitchen, burn out two pounds ov 
handles, and grease yure boots. Wait pashuntly for 
dabrake. When day duz brake, then commence tew 
stir up the geese and worry the hogs. 

Too mutch sleep iz ruinous tew geese and tew hogs. 
Remember yu kant git rich on a farm, unless yu rize 
at 2 o’clock in the morning, and stir up the hogs and 
worry the geese. 


The happyest man in the world iz the farmer; he 
rizes at 2 o’clock in the morning, he watches for da 
lite tew brake, and when she duz brake, he goes out 
and stirs up the geese and worrys the hogs. 

What iz a lawyer !—What iz a merchant ?—What 
iz a doktor ?—What iz a minister ?—I answer, noth¬ 
ing ! 

A farmer is the nobless work ov God ; he rizes at 
2 o’clock in the morning, and burns out a half a 
pound ov wood and two kords of kandles, and then 
goes out tew worry the geese and stir up the hogs. 

Reloved farmers, adew. Josii Billings. 
















vfr 

"'F 


SAMUEL L. CLEMENS. 



(maek twain). 

ARK TWAIN lias a world wide reputation as the great American 
humorist, a reputation which has been steadily growing at home and 
abroad since the publication of* “ Innocents Abroad ” in 1869, and 
he is undoubtedly one of the most popular authors in the United 
States. The story of his life is the record of a career which could 
have been possible in no other country in the world. 

He was born in Florida in 1835, though most of his boyhood was passed at 
Hanibal, Mo., where he attended the village school until he was thirteen, which was 
his only opportunity for educational training. At this early age he was apprenticed 
to a printer and worked at this trade in St. Louis, Cincinnatti, Philadelphia and 
New York. During his boyhood his great ambition, his one yearning, had been to 
become one day a pilot on a Mississippi steamboat. He realized this ambition in 
1851 and the experiences of this pilot life are told in his Life on the Mississippi.” 
His pen-name was suggested by the expression used in Mississippi navigation where 
in sounding a depth of two fathoms, the leadsman calls out, “ Mark Twain!” 

After serving in 1861 in Nevada as private secretary to his brother who was at 
this time secretary of the Territory, he became city editor of the Virginia City 

Enter23rise,” and here his literary labors began, and the pseudonym now so 
familiar was first used. 

In 1865, he was reporter on the staff of the San Francisco “ Morning Call,” 
though his newsj^aper work was interspersed with unsuccessful attempts at gold 
digging and a six months’ trip to Hawaii. 

This was followed by a lecture trip through California and Nevada, which gave 
unmistakable evidence that he had the “gift” of humor. 

His fame, however, was really made by the publication of “ Innocents Abroad ” 
(Hartford, 1869), 125,000 copies of which were sold in three years. This book is a 
brilliant, humorous account of the travels, experiences and opinions of a party of 
tourists to the Mediterranean, Egypt, Palestine, France and Italy. 

His next literary work of note was the publication of “Roughing It” (Hart¬ 
ford, 1872), which shook the sides of readers all over the United States. This con¬ 
tained inimitable sketches of the rough border life and personal exj:)eriences in Cali¬ 
fornia, Nevada and Utah. In fact all Mark Twain’s literary work which bears the 
stamp of permanent worth and merit is personal and autobiographical. He is never 
so successful in works that are purely of an imaginative character. 

507 



















5o8 


SAMUEL L. CLEMENS. 


In 1873, in conjunction with Charles Dudley Warner, he produced a story 
entitled the “ Gilded Age ” which was dramatized and had a marked success on the 
stage. His other well-known works are : “ Sketches Old and New;” “ Adventures 
of Tom Sawyer ” (1876), a story of boy life in Missouri and one of his best produc¬ 
tions, “ Punch, Brothers, Punch ” (1878); “ A Tramp Abroad ” (1880), containing 
some of his most humorous and successful descri])tioiis of personal experiences on a 
trip through Germany and Switzerland; “The Stolen White Elej)liant ” (1882); 
“ Prince and the Pauper ” (1882); “Life on the Mississippi ” (1883) ; “ Adventures 
of Huckleberry Finn” (1885), a sequel to “Tom Sawyer;” “A Yankee at Kin^ 
Arthur’s Court” and Personal Becollections of Joan of Arc” (1896). 

In 1884, he established in New York City the publishing house of C. L. 
AVebster & Co., which issued in the following year the “Memoirs” of U. S. 
Grant, the profits from which publication to the amount of f350,000 were paid 
to ]\Irs. Grant in accordance with an agreement previously signed with General 
Grant. 

By the unfortunate failure of this company in 1895, Mark Twain found himself 
a poor man and morall}^ though not legally, responsible for large sums due the 
creditors. Like Sir "Walter Scott, he resolved to wipe out the last dollar of the debt 
and at once entered upon a lecturing trip around the world, which effort is ])roving 
financially a success. He is also at work upon a new book soon to be published. 
His home is at Hartford, Connecticut, where he has lived in delightful friendship 
and intercourse with Charles Dudley Warner, Harriet Beecher Stowe and other 
literary characters of that city. His writings have been translated into German and 
they have met with large sales both in England and on the continent. 


JIM SMILEY’S FKOG. 



ELL, this yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and 
chicken-cocks, and all them kind of things, 
till you couldn’t rest, and you couldn’t fetch 
nothing for him to bet on but he’d match you. lie 
ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said 
he cal'klated to edercate him ; and so he never done 
nothing for three months but set in his back yard and 
learn that frog to jump. And you bet he did learn 
him, too. He’d give him a little punch behind, and 
the next minute you’d see that frog whirling in the 
air like a doughnut,—see him turn one .summerset, or 
maybe a couple, if he got a good start, and come down 
flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up 
so in the matter of catching flies, and kept him in 
practice .so constant, that he’d nail a fly every time 
as far as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog 
wanted was education, and he could do most any¬ 
thing; and I believe him. Why, I’ve seen him .set 
Dan’l Webster down here on this floor,—Han’l Web¬ 


ster was the name of the frog,—and sing out, “ Flies, 
Dan’l, flies,” and quicker’n you could wink he’d 
spring straight up, and snake a fly off’n the counter 
there, and flop down on the floor again, as solid as a 
gob of mud. and fall to scratching the side of his head 
with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea 
he’d been doing any more’n any frog might do. You 
never see a frog so modest and straightfor’ard as he 
was, for all he was so gifted. And when it came to 
fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get 
over more ground at one straddle than any animal of 
his breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was 
his strong suit, you understand ; and when it come to 
that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as 
he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his 
frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had trav¬ 
eled and been everywhere, all said he laid over any 
frog that ever then/ see. 

Well, Smiley kept the beast in a little lattice box, 








SAMUEL L. CLEMENS. 


509 


and he used to fetch him down town sometimes, and 
lay for a bet. One day a feller,—a stranger in the 
camp he was,—came across him with his box, and 
says: 

“ What might it be that you’ve got in the box ? ” 

And Smiley says sorter indifferent like, “ It might 
he a parrot, or it might be a canary, may be, but it 
ain’t,—it’s only just a frog.” 

And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and 
turned it round this way and that, and says, “ H’m ! 
so ’tis. Well, what’s he good for ?” 

“ Well,” Smiley says, easy and careless, “ he’s good 
enough for one thing, I should judge—he can outjump 
any frog in Calaveras County.” 

The feller took the box again, and took another long 
particular look, and gave it back to Smiley, and says, 
very deliberate, “ Well, I don’t see no p’ints about 
that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.” 

“ May be you don’t,” Smiley says. “ 3Iay be you 
understand frogs, and may be you don’t understand 
’em; may be you’ve had experience, and may be you 
an’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got 
my opinion, and I’ll risk forty dollars that he can out¬ 
jump any frog in Calaveras County. 

And the feller studied a minute, and then says, 
kinder sad like, “ Well, I’m only a stranger here, and 
I ain’t got no frog; but if I had a frog, I’d bet 
you.’' 

And then Smiley says, “ That’s all right, that’s all 
right ; if you’ll hold my box a minute. I’ll go and get 
you a frog.” And so the feller took the box, and put 
up his forty dollars along with Smiley’s and set down 
to wait. So he set there a good while, thinking and 
thinking to hisself, and then he got the frog out and 
prized his mouth open, and took a teaspoon and filled 


him full of quail shot,—filled him pretty near up to 
his chin,—and set him on the floor. Smiley he went 
to the swamp, and slopped around in the mud for a 
long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched 
him in, and give him to this feller, and says: 

“ Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l, 
with his fore-paws just even with Dan’l, and I’ll give 
the word.” Then he says, “ One—two—three— 
jumpand him and the feller touched up the frogs 
from behind, and the new frog hopped off, but Dan’l 
gave a heave and hysted up his shoulders,—so,—like a 
Frenchman, but it wasn’t no use,—he couldn’t budge ; 
he was planted as solid as an anvil, and he couldn’t 
no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was 
a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted, too, but 
he didn’t have no idea what the matter was, of 
course. 

The feller took the money and started away; and 
when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked 
his thumb over his .shoulders,—this way,—at Dan’l, 
and says again, very deliberate, “ Well, I don’t see no 
p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other 
frog.” 

Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking 
down at Dan’l a long time, and at last he says, “ I do 
wonder what in the nation that frog throwed off for; 
I wonder if there an’t something the matter with 
him, he ’pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.” 
And he ketched Dan’l by the nap of the neck, and 
lifted him up, and says, “ Why, blame my cats, if he 
don’t weigh five pound! ” and turned him upside 
down, and he belched out a double handful of shot. 
And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest 
man. He set the frog down, and took out after that 
feller, but he never ketched him. 


UNCLE DAN’L’S APPARITION AND PRAYER. 


(from “ THE GILDED AGE ” 


H DEEP coughing sound trouhled the stillness, 
way toward a wooded cape that jutted into 
the stream a mile distant. All in an in¬ 
stant a fierce eye of fire shot out from behind the cape 
and sent a long brilliant pathway quivering athwart 
the dusky water. The coughing grew louder and 
louder, the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, 
glared wilder and still wilder. A huge shape de- 


OF CLEMENS AND WARNER.) 

veloped itself out of the gloom, and from its tall 
duplicate horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and 
spangled with sparks, poured out and went tumbling 
away into the farther darkness. Nearer and nearer 
the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with 
spots of light which mirrored themselves in the river 
and attended the monster like a torchlight procession. 

“ What is it? Oh, what is it, Uncle Dan’l! ” 






SAMUEL L. CLEMENS. 


510 

With deep solemnity the answer came: 

“ It’s de Almighty ! Git down on yo’ knees ! ” 

It was not necessary to say it twice. They were 
all kneeling in a moment. And then while the mys¬ 
terious coughing rose stronger and stronger and the 
threatening glare reached farther and wider, the 
negro's voice lifted up its supjtlications: 

“ O Lord, we’s ben mighty wicked, an’ we knows 
dat we 'zerve to go to de bad place, but good Lord, 
deah Lord, we ain’t ready yit, we ain’t ready—let 
these po’ chil’en hab one mo’ chance, jes’ one mo’ 
chance. Take de old niggah if you’s got to hab some¬ 
body. Good Lord, good deah Lord, we don’t know 
whah you’s a gwine to, we don’t know who you’s got 
yo’ eye on, but we knows by de way you’s a comin,’ 
we knows by the way you’s a tiltin’ along in yo’ 
charyot o’ fiah dat some po’ sinner's a gwine to ketch 
it. But, good Lord, dese chil’en don’ b’long heah, 
dey’s f’m Obedstown whah dey don’t know nuffin, 
an’ yo’ knows, yo’ own sef, dat dey ain’t ’sponsible. 
An’ deah Lord, good Lord, it ain’t like yo’ mercy, 
it ain’t like yo’ pity, it ain’t like yo’ long-sufferin’ 
lovin’-kindness for to take dis kind 0 ’ ’vantage 0 ’ 
sich little chil’en as dese is when dey’s so many onery 
grown folks chuck full 0 ’ cussedness dat wants roastin’ 
down dah. 0 Lord, spah de little chil’en, don’t tar 
de little chil’en away f’m dey frens, jes’ let ’em off dis 
once, and take it out’n de ole niggah. Heah I is. 
Lord, heah I is ! De ole niggah’s ready. Lord, de 
ole-” 

The flaming and churning steamer was right abreast 
the party, and not twenty steps away. The awful 
thunder of a mud-valve suddenly burst forth, drown¬ 
ing the prayer, and as suddenly Uncle Dan’l snatched 
a child under each arm and scoured into the woods 
with the rest of the pack at his heels. And then, 
ashamed of himself, he halted in the deep darkness 
and shouted (but rather feebly) : 

“ Heah I is. Lord, heah I is ! ” 

There was a moment of throbbing suspense, and 
then, to the surprise and comfort of the party, it was 
plain that the august presence had gone by, for 
its dreadful noises were receding. Uncle Dan’l 
headed a cautious reconnoissance in the direction 
of the log. Sure enough “ the Lord ” was just 
turning a point a short distance up the river, and 
while they looked the lights winked out and the 


coughing diminished by degrees and presently ceased 
altogether. 

“ H’wsh ! Well, now, dey’s some folks says dey 
ain’t no ’ficiency in prah. Dis chile would like to 
know whah we’d a ben now if it warn’t fo’ dat prah! 
Dat's it. Dat's it! ” 

“ Uncle Dan’l, do you reckon it was the prayer that 
saved us ? ” said Glay. 

“ Does I reckon ? Don’t I know it! Whah was 
yo’ eyes? Warn’t de Lord jes’ a coinin’ chow! 
chow ! CHOW ! an’ a goin’ on turrible—an’ do de Lord 
carry on dat way ’dout dey’s sumfin don’t suit him? 
An’ warn’t he a lookin’ right at dis gang heah, an’ 
warn’t he jes’ a reachin’ fer ’em ? An’ d’you spec’ he 
gwine to let ’em off ’dout somebody ast him to do it ? 
No indeedy! ” 

“Do you reckon he saw us. Uncle Dan’l?” 

“ De law sakes, chile, didn't I see him a lookin’ at 
us?” 

“ Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan’l?” 

“A’b sah ! When a man is ’gaged in prah he ain’t 
’fraid o’ nuffin—dey can’t nuffin tech him.” 

“ Well, what did you run for?” 

“ Well, I—I—Mars Clay, when a man is under de 
influence ob de sperit, he do-no what he’s ’bout— 
no sah; dat man do-no what he’s ’bout. You 
might take an’ tab de head off’n dat man an’ he 
wouldn’t scasely fine it out. Dab’s de Hebrew chil’en 
dat went frough de fiah ; dey was burnt considable— 
ob coase dey was; but dey did’nt know nuffin ’bout 
k—heal right up agin ; if dey’d been gals dey’d missed 
dey long haah (hair), maybe, but dey wouldn’t felt 
de burn.” 

“ / dont know but what they were girls. I think 
they were.” 

“ Now, Mars Clay, you knows better’n dat. Some¬ 
times a body can’t tell whedder you’s a sayin’ 
what you means or whedder you’s a saying what 
you don’t mean, ’case you says ’em bofe de same 
way.” 

“ But how should I know whether they were boys 
or girls ? ” 

“ Goodness sakes. Mars Clay, don’t de good book 
say ? ’Sides don’t it call ’em de //e-brew chil’en ? If 
dey was gals wouldn’t dey be de she-brew chil’en ? 
Some people dat kin read don’t ’pear to take no no¬ 
tice when dey do read.” 






SAMUEL L. CLEMENS. 


511 


“ Well, Uncle Pan'l, I think that- My ! here 

comes another one up the river ! There can’t be two." 

“ \\ e gone dis time—we done gone dis time sho’! 
Dey ain’t two, Mars Clay, dat’s de same one. l)e Lord 
kin ’pear everywhah in a second. Goodness, how de 
fiah an’ de smoke do belch up ! Dat means business, 
honey, lie cornin’ now like he forgot sumtin. Come 


1 long, chil’en, time you’s gone to roos’. Go ’long wid 
j you—ole Uncle Uan'l gvvine out in de woods to rastle 
^ in prah—de ole niggah gwine to do what he kin to 
sabe you agin ! ” 

j He did go to the woods and pray ; but he werft so 
far that he doubted himself if the Lord heard him 
when he went by. 


From 


Ten- 



in our sorrows, let us not forget them in 
our festivities.” 


THE BABIES. 

a speech of Mark Twain at the banquet given in honor of Gen. Grant, by the Army of the 
nessee, at the Palmer House, Chicago, Nov. 14, 1879. 

OAST :—“ The Babies—As they comfort us for soothing syrup, did you venture to throw out any 

side remarks about certain services unbecoming an 
officer and a gentleman? No,—you got up and got 
I like that. We haven’t all had the good fortune ' it. If he ordered his bottle, and it wasn’t warm, did 
to be ladies; we haven’t all been generals, or poets, ’ you talk back ? Not you,—you went to work and 
or statesmen; but when the toast works down to the | warmed it. You even descended so far in your 
babies, we stand on common ground, for we have all menial office as to take a suck at that warm, insipid 
been babies. It is a shame that for a thousand years stuff yourself, to see if it was right,—three parts 
the world’s banquets have utterly ignored the baby— | water to one of milk, a touch of sugar to modify the 
as if he didn’t amount to anything! If you gentle- j colic, and a drop of peppermint to kill those immortal 
men will stop and think a minute,—if you will go hiccups. I can taste that stuff yet. And how many 


back fifty or a hundred years, to your early married 
life, and recontemplate your first baby, you will re¬ 
member that he amounted to a good deal, and even 


things you learned as you went along; sentimental 
young folks still took stock in that beautiful old say¬ 
ing that when the baby smiles in his sleep, it is be- 


something over. You soldiers all know that when j cause the angels are whispering to him. Very pretty, 
that little fellow arrived at family head-quarters you ^ but “ too thin,”—simply wind on the stomach, my 
had to hand in your resignation. He took entire friends 1 If the baby proposed to take a walk at his 
command. You became his lackey, his mere body-j usual hour, 2:30 in the morning,* didn’t you rise up 
servant, and you had to stand around, too. He was ^ promptly and remark—with a mental addition which 


not a commander who made allowances for time, dis¬ 
tance, weather, or anything else. You had to execute 
his order whether it was possible or not. And there 
was only one form of marching in his manual of 
tactics, and that was the double-quick. He treated 


wouldn’t improve a Sunday-school book much—that 
that was the very thing you were about to propose 
yourself! Oh, you were under good discipline ! And 
as you went fluttering up and down the room in your 
“ undress uniform ” you not only prattled undignified 


you with every sort of insolence and disrespect, and | baby-talk, but even tuned up your martial voices and 


the bravest of you didn’t dare to say a word. You 
could face the death-storm of Donelson and Vicks¬ 
burg, and give back blow for blow; but when he 
clawed your whiskers, and pulled your hair, and 
twisted your nose, you had to take it. When the 
thunders of war were sounding in your ears, you set 
your faces toward the batteries and advanced with 
steady tread ; but when he turned on the terrors of 


tried to sing “ Rockaby baby in a tree-top,” for in¬ 
stance. What a spectacle for an Army of the Ten¬ 
nessee! And what an affliction for the neighbors, 
too,—for it isn’t everybody within a mile around that 
likes military music at three in the morning. And 
when you had been keeping this sort of thing up 
two or three hours, and your little velvet-head inti¬ 
mated that nothin" suited him like exercise and 


his war-whoop, you advanced in the other direction— ' noise,—“ Go on ! ”—what did you do? You simply 
and mighty glad of the chance, too. When he called { went on, till you disappeared in the last ditch. 












lillllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHnilllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllUt 


ft (?>(?» 


7f\ T'i'T *'f'T “!\ tHt >4\ T^T >Kt T'j'T 3i, 


iiiiiiMiiiiMMir; 




CHAKLES FOLLEN ADAMS. 



AUTHOR OF “LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS.” 

HE humorous and dialectic literature of America owes more to Charles 
Follen Adams perhaps than to any other contributor who has not 
made literature a business or depended upon his pen for his livelihood. 
There is not a pretentious book of humorous readings or popular 
selections of late years which has not enriched its pages from this 
pleasingly funny man who delineates the German-American 
character and imitates its dialect with an art that is so true to nature as to be 
well-nigh perfection. “ The Puzzled Dutchman; ” “ Mine Vamily; ” “ Mine Moder- 
in-Law;” “Der Vater Mill“Der Drummer,” and, above all, “Dot Leedle Yawcob 
Strauss,” have become classics of their kind and will not soon suffer their author to 
be forgotten. 

Charles Follen Adams was born in Dorchester, Mass., April 21, 1842, where he 
received a common school education, leaving school at fifteen years of age to take a 
position in a business house in Boston. This place he occupied until August, 1862, 
when he enli^ed, at the age of twenty, in tlie Thirteenth Massachusetts Begimentof 
Volunteers, and saw service in a number of hard-fought battles. At Gettysburg, 
in 1863, he was wounded and held a prisoner for three days until the Union forces 
recajitured the town. After the close of the war he resumed business, and succeeded 
in ])lacing himselt at the head of a large business house in Boston, where he has 
continued to reside. 

It was not until 1870 that Mr. Adams wrote his first poem, and it was two years 
later that his first dialectic effort, “The Puzzled Dutchman,” appeared and made 
his name known. From that time he begun to contribute “as the spirit moved him ” 
to thebcal jiapers, “Oliver Optic’s Magazine,” and, now and then, to “Scribner’s.” 
In 1876 he became a regular contributor to the “Detroit Free Press,” his “Leedle 
Yawcob Strauss” being publisliecl in tliat paper in June, 1876. For many yeare 
all Ills productions were published in that journal, and did much to enhance its 
growing popularity as a humorous paper. 

As a genial, companionable man in business and social circles, Mr. Adams has 
^ great distinction among his friends as he holds in the literary world as a humorist. 
His house IS one of marked hospitality where the fortunate guest always finds a 
cordial welcome. 


512 



































CHARLES FOLLEX ADAMS. 


513 


DKR DRUMMER* 



no puts oup at der pest hotel, 

Und dakes his oysders on der sehell, 
Und init der frauleins cuts a schwell? 
Der drummer. 


Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore, 
Drows down his pundles on der vlnor, 
Und nefer schtops to shut der door ? 
Der drummer. 


Who dakes me py der handt, und say, 
“ Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day?” 
Und goes vor peeseness righdt avay? 
Der drummer. 


Who shpreads his zamples in a trice, 

Und dells me, “ Rook, und see how nice?” 
Und says I get “ der bottom price?” 

Der drummer. 


Who dells how sheap der goods vas bought. 
Mooch less as vot I gould imbort. 


Hut lets dem go as he vas “ short?” 

Der drummer. 

Who says der tings vas eggstra vine,— 

“ ^'rom Sharmany, ubon der Rhine,”—- 
Und sheats me den dimes oudt oflF nine ? 
Der drummer. 

Who varrants all der goots to suit 
Der gustomers ubon his route, 

Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot? 

Der drummer. 

Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt. 
Drinks oup mine bier, and eats mine kraut, 
Und kiss Katrina in der mout’ ? 

Der drummer. 

Who, ven he gomes again dis vay, 

^"ill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say, 

Und mit a plack eye goes avay? 

Der drummer. 


HANS AND FRITZ.* 


A NS and Fritz were two Deutschers who 
lived side by side. 

Remote from the world, its deceit and its 
pride; 

With their pretzels and beer the spare moments were 
spent. 

And the fruits of their labor were peace and content. 



When the question arose, the note being made, 
“ Vich von holds dot baper until it vas baid?” 


“ You geeps dot,” says Fritz, “und den you vill know 
You owes me dot money.” Says Hans, “ Dot ish so : 
Dot makes me remempers I half dot to bay, 

Und I prings you der note und der money some day.” 


Hans purchased a horse of a neighbor one day. 
And, lacking a part of the Geld ,—as they say,— 
Made a call upon Fritz to solicit a loan 
To help him to pay for his beautiful roan. 

Fritz kindly consented the money to lend. 

And gave the required amount to his friend ; 
Remarking,—his own simple language to (juote,— 
“ Perhaps it vas bedder ve make us a note.” 

The note was drawn up in their primitive way,— 

“ I, Hans, gets from Fritz feefty tollars to-day 


A month had expired, when Hans, as agreed. 

Paid back the amount, and from debt he was freed. 
Says Fritz, “ Now dot settles us.” Hans replies, 
“ Yaw ; 

Now who dakes dot baper accordings by law ? ” 

“ I geeps dot now, aind’t it ? ” says Fritz; “ den you 
see, 

1 alvays remempers you paid dot to me.” 

Says Hans, “ Dot ish so; it vas now shust so blain. 
Dot 1 knows vot to do ven T porrows again.” 


YAWCOB STRAUSS.* 



HAF von funny leedle poy, 

\'ot gomes schust to mine knee; 

Der fpieerest schap, der Greatest rogue. 
As efer you dit see. 


He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings 
In all harts off der house: 

But vot off dot ? he vas mine son, 

Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 


* Special Permission of the Author. 





















5^4 CHAELES 

He get der measles und der mumbs, 

End eteryding dot’s oudt; 

He sbills mine glass oflP lager bier, 
l^oots schnuff indo mine kraut. 

He fills mine jiipe niit Limburg cheese.— 
Dot vas der roughest chouse ; 

I’d dake dot vrom no oder poy 
But leedle Yawcob Strauss. 

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, 

Und cuts mine cane in dwo, 

To make der schticks to beat it mit.— 
Mine cracious dot vas drue ! 

I dinks mine bed vas schplit abart, 

He kicks oup sooch a touse: 

But nefer mind ; der poys vas few 
lAke dot young Yawcob Strauss. 


MINE MODE 

HERE vas many qveer dings in dis land of 
der free, 

I neflfer could qvite understand ; 

Der beoples dhey all seem so deefrent to me 
As dhose in mine own faderland. 

Dhey gets blendy droubles, und indo mishaps 
Mitout der least bit off a cause ; 

Und vould you pelief it? dhose mean Yangee shaps 
Dhey fights mit dheir moder-in-laws ? 

Shust dink off a vhite man so vicked as dot ! 

^'hy not gife der oldt lady a show ? 

Who vas it gets oup, ven der nighdt id vas hot, 

Mit mine baby, I shust like to know? 

Und dhen in dher vinter vhen Katrine vas sick 
Und der mornings vas shnowy und raw. 

Who made righdt avay oup dot fire so quick? 

Vhy. dot vas mine moder-in-law. 


XEN ADAMS. 

He asks me questions sooch as dese : 

Who baints mine nose so red ? 

Who vas it cut dot schmoodth blace oudt 
Vrom der hair ubon mine hed ? 

Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp 
Vene er der glim I dou.sc 
How gan I all dose dings eggsblain 
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ? 

I somedimes dink I schall go vild 
Mit sooch a grazy poy, 

Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest, 
Und beaceful dimes enshoy ; 

But ven he vas ashleep in ped. 

So guiet as a mouse, 

I prays der Lord, “ Dake anyding. 

But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss.” 


l-IN-LAW.* 

Id vas von off dhose voman’s righdts vellers I betm 
Dhere vas noding dot's mean aboudt me; 

Vhen der oldt lady vishes to run dot masheen, 

Vhy, I shust let her run id, you see. 

Und vhen dot shly Yawcob vas cutting some dricks 
(A block off der oldt chip he vas, yaw !) 

Ef he goes for dot shap like some dousand off 
bricks. 

Dot’s all righdt! She’s mine moder-in law. 

Veek oudt und veek in, id vas always der same, 

Dot vomen vas bos.s off der house; 

But, dehn, neffer mindt! I vas glad dot she came. 
She vas kind to mine young Yawcob Strauss. 

Und ven dhere vas vater to get vrom der spring 
Und firevood to shplit oup und saw 
She vas velcome to dn it. Dhere’s not anyding 
Dot’s too good for mine moder-in-law. 



Copyriglit, Harper & Bros. 









EDGAR WILSON NYE. 


(BILL NYE.) 

ONG tliose wlio liave shaken the sides of the fun-loving citizens of 
the United States and many in the old world with genuine wit and 
droll humol', our familiar and purely American “Bill Nye” must be 
numbered. 

Edgar Wilson Nye was a born “funny man” who.se humor was 
as irrejiressible as his disposition to breathe air. The very face of 
till* man, while far from being homely, as is frequently judged from comic pictures 
of him, was enough to provoke the risibility of the most sedate and unsmiling citi¬ 
zens in any community. When Mr. Nye walked out on the platform to exhibit in 
his plain manner a few .samjiles of his “Baled Hay,” or offer what he was pleased 
to term a few “ K(*mai ks,” or to narrate one or more of the tales told by those famous 
creatures of his imagination known as “The Forty Liars,”—before a word was 
uttered an infectious smile often grew into a roaring laugh. 

Edgar Wilson Nye was boiai at Shirley, Maine, 1850. His parents removed to 
Wisconsin, and thence to Wyoming Territory when he was but a boy, and he giew 
up amid the hardships and humorous aspects of frontier life, which he has .so amus¬ 
ingly woven into the warp and the woof of his early “yarns.” Mr. Nye studied 
law and was admitted to the bar in 1870; but practiced his profession only one year. 
Afterwards he re})orted for the newspapers, and, in 1878, began to write regularly 
a weekly hunioious letter for the Sunday papers in the West. This he continued 
to do for several years, receiving good compensation therefor, and his re])utation as 
a humorous writer grew steadily and rapidly. 

In 1884, Mr. Nye came to New York and organized the Nye Trust, or Syndi¬ 
cate, through whicli a weekly letter from liim .should simultaneously appear in the 
journals of the principal cities of the Union. This increa.sed his fame; and during 
the later years of his life he was engaged much of his time on the lecture jilatform, 
sometimes alone, and sometimes in company with other prominent authors. He 
-and the poet, James Whitcomb Riley, did considerable touring together and were 
enthusia.stically w(*l(*omed wherever they went, the jieople invariably turning out in 
large numbers to enjoy a feast of fun and good feeling which this ])air of prominent 
and typical We.sterners never failed to treat them to. 

Among the most humorous of Mi-. Nye’s recent writings were his famous letters 
from Buck’s Shoals, North Carolina, where, in his imagination, he established him¬ 
self as a southern farmer, and dealt out his rural philosophy and comments on cur- 

515 


























EDGAR WILSON NTE. 


516 


rent events to the delight, not only of the farmers—many of whom imagined that 
he was really one of them—but of every class of readers throughout the country. 

In 1894 Mr. Nye turned his attention to another branch of humor, and brought 
out “Bill Nye’s History of the United States.” The drollery and humor of this 
work is unsurpassed—the interest and delight of the reader being greatly enhanced 
by the fact that he followed the chronological thread of tlie real historic narrative 
on which lie jiours the sidelights of his side-splitting humor. The success of this 
book was so great that Mr. Nye was preparing to go abroad to write humorous 
histories of England and other European countries when he suddenly died in 1891), 
in the 47th year of his age. 

After his death Mrs. Nye went abroad, stopping in Berlin for the education of her 
children. The royalty on “Bill Nye’s” books brings an ample support for his 
family. 


THE WILD COW. 

(CLIPPI.NQ FRO.M NEWSPAPER.) 


HI]N I wa.s young and used to roam around 
over the country, gathering water-melons 
in the light of the moon, I used to think 
I could milk anybody’s cow, but I do not think so 
now. I do not milk a cow now unless the sign is 
right, and it hasn’t been right for a good many years. 
The last cow I tried to milk was a common cow, 
born in obscurity; kind of a self-made cow. I 
remember her brow was low, but she wore her tail 
high and she was haughty, oh, so haughty. 

I made a common-place remark to her, one that is 
used in the very best of society, one that need not 
have given offence anywhere. I said, “ So ”—and 
she “ soed.” Then I told her to “ hist ” and she 
histed. But I tlu)ught she overdid it. She put too 
much expression in it. 


Just then I heard something crash through the 
window of the barn and fall with a dull, sickening 
thud on the outside. The neighbors came to .see 
what it was that caused the noise. They found 
that I had done it in getting through the window. 

I asked the neighbors if the barn was still stand¬ 
ing. They said it was. Then I asked if the cow was 
injured much. They said she seemed to be quite 
robust. Then I requested them to go in and calm 
the cow a little, and see if they could get my plug 
hat oft her horns. 

I am buying all my milk now of a milkman. I 
select a gentle milkman who will not kick, and feel 
as though 1 could trust him. Then, if he feels ad 
though he could trust me, it is all right. 



MB. WHISK’S 
0 she .said to him: Oh, darling, I fear 

that my wealth hath taught thee to love 
me, and if it were to take wings unto 
itself thou wouldst also do the same.” 

“Nay, txwendolin,” said Mr. Whisk, softly, as he 
drew her head down upon his shoulder and tickled 
the lobe of her little cunning ear with the end of his 
moustache, “ I love not thy dollars, but thee alone. 
Also elsewhere. If thou doubtest me, give thy 
wealth to the poor. Give it to the WorM’s Fair. 
Give it to the Gentral Pacific Bailroad. Give it to 
any one who is suffering.” 


TRUK LOVE. 

“ No,” .she unto him straightway did make answer, 
“ I could not do that, honey.” 

“ Then give it to your daughter,” .said IMr. Whi.sk, 
“ if you think I am so low as to love alone your yellow 
dro.ss.” He then drew him.self up to his full height. 

She flew to his arms like a frightened dove that 
has been hit on the head with a rock. Folding her 
warm round arms about his neck, .she sobbed with 
joy and gave her entire fortune to her daughter. 

Mr. Whisk then married the daughter, and went 
on about his busine.ss. I sometimes think that, at the 
best, man is a great coarse thing. 










EDGAR WILSON NYE. 


517 


THE PISCOVEEY OF NEW YORK. 


FROM “ BILL NYE’s HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES, 1894.” 


By Permission of J. B. Lippincott Co. 



HE author will now refer to the discovery of 
the Hudson River and the town of New 
York via Fort Lee and the 125th Street 

Ferry. 

New York was afterwards sold for twenty-four dol¬ 
lars,—the whole island. When I think of this I go 
into uiy family gallery, which I also use as a swear 
room, and tell those ancestors of mine what I think 
of them. Where were they when New York was 


sold for twenty-four dollars ? Were they having 
their portraits painted by Landseer, (tr their disposi¬ 
tion taken by Jeffreys, or having their Little Lord 
Fauntleroy clothes made ? 

Do not encourage them to believe that they will 
escape me in future years. Some of them died un¬ 
regenerate, and are now, I am told, in a country 
where they may possibly be damned; and I will at¬ 
tend to the others personally. 



Twenty-four dollars for New York ! Why, my 
Croton-water tax on one house and lot with fifty 
feet four and one-fourth inches front is fifty-nine dol¬ 
lars and no questions asked. Why, you can’t get a 
voter for that now. 

Henry—or Hendrik—Hudson was an English 
navigator, of whose birth and early history nothing 
is known definitely, hence his name is never men¬ 
tioned in many of the best homes of New York. 

In 1(507 he made a voyage in search of the 
North West Passage. In one of his voyages he dis¬ 
covered Cape Cod, and later on the Hudson River. 

This was one hundred and seventeen years after 
(’olumbus discovered America ; which shows that the 
discovering business was not pushed as it .should have 
been by those who had it in charge. 

Hudson went up the river as far as Albany, but, 


finding no one there whom he knew, he ha.stene(L 
back as far as 209th Street West, and anchored. 

He discovered Hudson Bay and Hudson Strait, 
and made other journeys by water, though aquatting 
was then in its infancy. Afterwards his sailors 
became mutinous, and set Hendrik and his .son, witli 
seven infirm .sailors, afloat. 

Ah ! Whom have we here ? 

It is Hendrik Hud.son, who discovered the Hud¬ 
son River. 

Here he has just landed at the foot of 209th 
Street, New York, where he offered the Indians 
liquor, but they refused. 

How 209th. Street has changed ! 

The artist has been fortunate in getting the expres- 
.sion of the Indians in the act of refusing. iMr. Hud¬ 
son’s great reputation lies in the fact that he dis- 









5^8 


EDGAR WILSON NYE. 


covered the river which bears his name; but the 
tliinking mind will at once regard the discovery of an 
Indian who does not drink as far more wonderful. 

Some historians say that this special delegation 
was swept away afterwards by a pestilence, whilst 
others, commenting on the incident, maintain that 
Hudson lied. 

Jt is the only historical (juestion regarding America 
not 1‘ully settled by this book. 

Nothing more was heard by him till he turned up 
in a thinking part in “ Kip Van Winkle.” 

Many claims regarding the discovery of various 
parts of the United States had been previously made. 
The (.'abots had discovered Labrador; the S[)aniards 
the southern part of the United States; the Norse¬ 
men had discovered Minneapolis ; and Columbus had 
discovered San Salvador and had gone home to meet 
a ninety-da 3 ' note due in I’alos for the use of the 
Uinta, which he had hired by the hour. 

But we are speaking of the discovery of New 
York. 

About this time a solitary horseman might have 
been seen at West 20!)th Street, clothed in a little 
brief authority, and looking out to the west as he 
petulantlv spoke in the Tammany dialect, then in the 
language of the blank-verse Indian. He began : 
“ Another day of an.\iety has passed, and yet we 
have not been discovered ! 'I'he threat Spirit tells me 
in the thunder of the surf and the roaring cataract of 
the Harlem that within a week we will be di.scovered 
for the first time.” 

As he stands there aboard of his horse one sees 
that he is a chief in every respect, and in life’s great 
drama would naturally occupy the middle of the 
stage. It was at this moment that Hudson slipped 
down the river from Albany past Fort Lee. and, 
dropping a nickle in the slot at 125th Street, weighed 


his anchor at that place. As soon as he had landed 
and discovered the city, he was ap|noached by the 
chief, who said : We gates. 1 am on the com¬ 

mittee to show 3 'ou our little town. 1 suppose you 
have a power of attorney, of course, for discovering 

US : 

Yes. ' .said Hudson. As (’olumbus used to s;iy 
when he iliscovered San Salvador, ■ 1 do it b^’ the 
right vested in me by mv' sovereigns.’ • That over¬ 
sizes my pile by a sovereign and a half,' says one of 
the natives ; and ,so, if you have not heard it, there 
is a good thing for one of j’our dinner-speeches 
here.” 

“ V ery good.” .said the chief, as they jogged down¬ 
town on a swift Sixth Avenue elevated train towards 
the wigwams on 14th .Street, and going at the rate of 
four miles an hour. " W’e do not care e.specially who 
discovers us so long as we hold control of the city 
organization. How about that. Hank?” 

'I’hat will be satisfactory,” .said Mr. Hudson, 
taking a package of imported cheese and eating it, so 
that they could have the car to themselves. 

We will take the departments, such as Uoli< e. 
Street-cleaning, etc., etc., etc., while you andUolumbus 
get 3 'our {>ietures on the currency and have j’our 
graves mussed up on anniversaries. VV'e get the two- 
moment horses and the countrv chateaux on the 
Bronx. Sabe?” 

'fhat IS, you do not care whose ])('rtrait is on the 
currency.” .said Hudson, ‘‘ so you get the currency.” 

Said the man. “That is the sen.se of the meeting.” 

'finis was New York discovered via Albany aiul 
Fort Lee, and five minutes after the two touched 
glasses, the brim of the schoppin and the Manhattan 
cocktail tinkled together, and New York was in¬ 
augurated. 










JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 

(“uncle kemus.”) 

OEL CHANDLER HARRIS has called himself “an accidental 
author,” for while living on a plantation as a typesetter on a country 
newspaper he became familiar with the curious myths and animal 
stories of the negroes, and some time in the seventies he printed a 
i magazine article on these folk-lore stories, giving at the same time 
some of the stories as illustration. 

This article attracted attention and revealed to the writer the fact that the stories 
had a decided literary value, and his main literary work has been the elaboration of 
these myths. / 

The stories of “ Uncle Remus” are, as almost everyone knows, not creations of 
the author’s fancy, but they are genuine folk-lore tales of the negroes, and strangely 
enough many of these stories are found in varying forms among the American 
Indians, among the Indians along the Amazon and in Brazil, and they are even 
found in India and Siam, which fact has called out learned discussions of the origin 
and anti(piity of the stories and the possible connection of the races. 

Our author was born in Eatonton, a little village in Georgia, December 9, 1848, 
in very humble circumstances. He was remarkably im})ressed, while still very 
young, with the “ Vicar of Wakefield,” and he straightway began to compose little 
tales of his own. 

In 18913 he went to the office of the “ Countryman,” a rural weekly paper in 
Georgia, to learn typesetting. It was edited and j)ublished on a large plantation, 
and the negroes of this and tlie adjoining jdantations furnished him with the material 
out of which the “ Uncle Remus” stories came. 

While learning to set type the young apprentice occasionally tried his hand at 
composing, and not infrequently he slipj)ed into the “ Countryman ” a little article, 
composed and printed, without ever having been put in manuscript form. 

The publication of an article on the folk-lore of the negroes in “ Lippincott’s 
Magazine ” was the beginning of his literary career, and the interest this awakened 
stimulated him to develop these curious, animal stories. 

iM any of the stories were finst printed as articles in the Atlanta “Constitution,” 
and it was soon seen by students of myth-literature that these stories were very sig¬ 
nificant and important in their bearing on general mythology. 

For the child they have a charm and an interest as “ good stories,” and they are 
told with rare skill and power, but for the student of ethnology they have special 

519 



















520 


JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 


value as throwing some light on the probable relation of the negroes with other races 
which tell similar folk-tales. 

Mr. Harris has studied and pursued the profession of law, though he has now for 
many years been one of the editors of the Atlanta “ Constitution,” for which many 
of his contributions have been originally written. 

He is also a frequent contributor both of prose and poetry to current literature, 
and he is the author of the following books: “ Uncle Remus, His Songs and His 
Sayings; the Folk-lore of the Old Plantation ” (New York, 1880), “ Nights With 
Uncle Remus” (Boston, 1883), “Mingo and Other Sketches” (1883). 


MR. RABBIT, MR. FOX, AND MR. BUZZARD.* 

fFROM “UNCLE REMUS.’A 


NE evening when the httle boy whose nights 
with Uncle Renaus are as entertaining 
as those Arabian ones of blessed memory, 
had finished supper and hurried out to sit with his 
venerable patron, he found the old man in great 
glee. Indeed, Uncle Remus was talking and laugh¬ 
ing to himself at such a rate that the little boy was 
afraid he had company. The truth is, TTncle Remus 
had heard the child coming, and when the rosy- 
cheeked chap put his head in at the door, was en¬ 
gaged in a monologue, the burden of which seemed to 
be— 

“Ole Molly liar’, 

Wat you doin’ dar, 

Settin’ in de cornder 
Smokin’ yo’ seegyar ? ” 

As a matter of course this vague allusion reminded 
the little boy of the fact that the wicked Fox was 
still in pursuit of the Rabbit, and he immediately put 
his curiosity in the shape of a question. 

“ Uncle Remus, did the Rabbit have to go clean 
away when he got loose from the Tar-Baby ? ” 

“Bless grashus. honey, dat he didn’t. Who? 
Him? You dunno nuthin’ ’tall ’bout Brer Rabbit 
ef dat’s de way you puttin’ ’im down. Wat he 
gwine ’way fer? He mouter stayed sorter close 
twel the pitch rub otf’n his ha'r, but twern’t menny 
days ’fo’ he wuz loping up en down de naberhood 
same as ever, en I dunno ef he wern’t mo’ sassier 
dan befo’. 

“ Seem like dat de tale ’bout how he got mixt up 
wid de Tar-Baby got ’roun’ mongst de nabers. 

♦ Copyright, George 


Leas'ways. Miss ^Meadows en de girls got win’ un’ it, 
en de nex’ time Brer Rabbit paid um a visit. Miss 
Meadows tackled ’im ’bout it, en de gals sot up a 
monstus gigglement. Brer Rabbit, he sot up des ez 
cool ez a cowcumber, he did, en let ’em run on.” 

“Who was Miss Meadows, Uncle Remus?” in¬ 
quired the little boy. 

“ Don’t ax me, honey. She wuz in de tale. Miss 
Meadows en de gals wuz, en de tale I give you like 
hi’t wer’ gun ter me. Brer Rabbit, he sot dar, he 
did, sorter lam’ like, en den bimeby he cross his legs, 
he did, and wink his eye slow, en up en say, sezee: 

“ ‘Ladies, Brer Fox wuz my daddy’s ridin’-hoss 
for thirty year ; maybe mo’, but thirty year dat I 
knows un,’ sezee; en den he paid um his specks, en 
tip his beaver, en march oflF, he did, dez ez stiff en 
ez stuck up ez a fire-stick. 

“ Nex’ day. Brer Fox cum a callin’, and w’en he 
gun fer to lafi’ ’bout Brer Rabbit, Miss Meadows en 
de gals, dey ups and tells im ’bout w’at Brer Rabbit 
say. Den Brer Fox grit his toof sho’ nuff', he did, 
en he look mighty dumpy, but when he riz fer to go 
he up en say, sezee; 

“ ‘ Ladies, I ain’t ’sputing w’at you say, but I ll 
make Brer Rabbit chaw up his words en spit um out 
right yer whar you kin see ’im,’ sezee, en wid dat off 
Brer Fox marcht. 

“ En w’en he got in de big road, he shuck de dew 
off’n his tail, en made a straight shoot fer Brer 
Rabbit’s house. W’en he got dar. Brer Rabbit wuz 
spectin’ un him, en de do’ wuz shut fas’. Brer Fox 
knock. Nobody ain’t ans’er. Brer Fox knock. No- 
Rouiledge & Sons. 







JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 


521 


body ans'er. Den he knock agin—blam ! blam! 
Den Brer Babbit holler out, mighty weak : 

“ ‘ Is dat you, Brer Fox ? I want you ter run en 
fetch de doctor. Dat bit er parsley w’at I e't dis 
mawnin’ is gittin’ way wid me. Do. jilease, Brer 
Fox, run (|uifk,’ sez Brer Babbit, sezee. 

“ ‘ I come atter you. Brer Babbit,’ sez Brer Fox, 
sezee. ‘ Dere's gwinter be a party up at Miss 
Meadow's,' sezee. ‘ All de gals’ll be dere, en 1 
promus’ dat Fd fetch you. De gals, dey 'lowed dat 
hit wouldn’t be no party 'ceppin I fetch you,’ sez 
Brer Fox, sezee. 

“ Den Brer Babbit .say he wuz too sick, en Brer 
Fox say he wuzzent, en dar dey had it up and down 
sputin’ en contendin'. Brer Babbit say he can’t 
walk. Brer Fox say he tote ‘im. Brer Babbit say 
how? Brer Fox say in his arms. Brer Babbit say 
he drap im. Brer Fox low he won’t. Bimeby 
Brer Babbit say he go ef Brer Fox tote 'im on his 
back. Brer Fox say he would. Brer Babbit say he 
can’t ride widout a .saddle. Brer Fox say he git de 
saddle. Brer Babbit say he can’t set in saddle less 
he have a bridle for to hoi’ by. Brer Fox say he 
git de bridle. Brer Babbit say he can’t ride widout 
bline bridle, kaze Brer Fox be shyin’ at stumps long 
de road, en fling im off. Brer Fox say he git bline 
bridle. Den Brer Babbit say he go. Den Brer Fox 
say he ride Brer Babbit mos’ up to Miss Meadows’s, 
en den he could git down en walk de balance ob de 
way. Brer Babbit ’greed, en den Brer Fox lipt out 
atter de saddle en de bridle. 

Co’se Brer Babbit know de game dat Brer Fox 
wuz fixin’ fer ter play, en he termin’ fer ter out-do 
’im; en by de time he koam his h’ar en twis’ his 
mustarsh, en sorter rig uj>. yer come Brer Fox, .saddle 
and bridle on. en lookin’ ez peart ez a circus pony. 
He trot up tef de do’ en stan’ dar pawin’ de ground 
en chompin’ de bit .same like .sho’ nuff hos. en Brer 
Babbit he mount, he did, en day amble off. Brer 
Fox can’t see behime wid de bline bridle on, but 
bimeby he feel Brer Babbit raise one er his foots. 

“ ‘ W’at you doin’ now, Brer Babbit ? ’ sezee. 

“ ‘Short ain’ de lef .stir’p. Brer Fox,’ sezee. 

“ Bimeby Brer Babbit raise de udder foot. 

“ ‘ W’at you doin’ now. Brer Babbit ?’ .^ezee. 

“ ‘ Pullin’ down my pants. Brer Fox,’ sezee. 

“ All de time, bless grashus, honey, Brer Babbit 


was puttin’ on his spurrers, en w’en dey got close to 
Miss Meadows’s, whar Brer Babbit wuz to git off en 
Brer Fox made a motion fer ter stan’ still. Brer 
Babbit slap the spurrers inter Brer Fox flanks, en 
you better b’lieve he got over groun’. W’en dey 
got ter de house. Miss Meadows en all de girls wuz 
settin’ on de peazzer, en stidder stoppin’ at de gate 
Brer Babbit rid on by, he did, en den come gallopin’ 
down de road en up ter de hoss-rack, w’ich he hitch 
Brer Fox at, en den he santer inter de house, he did, 
en shake ban’s wid de gals, en set dar, smokin’ his 
.seegyar same ez a town man. Bimeby he draw in 
long puff, en den let hit out in a cloud, en squar his- 
se’f back, en holler out, he did : 

" ‘ Ladies, ain’t I done tell you Brer Fox wuz de 
ridin’ boss fer our fambly ? He sorter losin’ his gait 
now, but I speck I kin fetch ’im all right in a mont’ 
or so,’ sezee. 

“ En den Brer Babbit sorter grin, he did, en de 
gals giggle, en Miss Meadows, she praise up de pony, 
en dar wuz Brer Fox hitch fas’ ter de rack, en 
couldn’t he’p his.se’f.” 

“ Is that all. Uncle Bemus?” asked the little boy, 
as the old man paused. 

“ Dat ain’t all, honey, but ’twont do fer to give 
out too much doff for ter cut one pa’r pants,” replied 
the old man .sententiously. 

When “ Miss Sally’s” little boy went to T’ncle 
Bemus the next night, he found the old man in a 
bad humor. 

I ain't tollin’ no tales ter bad chilluns,” said 
Uncle Bemus curtly. 

“ But, Uncle Bemus. I ain’t bad,” said the little 
boy plaintively. 

“Who dat chunkin’dem chickens dis mawnin’? 
Who dat knockin’ out fokes’s eyes wid dat Yaller- 
bammer sling des ’fo’ dinner ? Who dat sickin’ dat 
pinter puppy atter my pig ? Who dat scatterin’ my 
ingun sets? Who dat Hingin’ rocks on top er my 
house, w’ich a little mo’ en one un em would er drap 
spang on my head ! ” 

“ Well, now. Uncle Bemus, I didn’t go to do it. I 
won’t do .so any more. Please, Uncle Bemus, if you 
will tell me. I’ll run to the house, and bring you 
some tea-cakes.” 

“ Seein’ urn’s better’n bearin’ tell un em,” replied 
the old man, the severity of his countenance relax- 






522 


JOEL (’HANDLER HARRIS. 


ing somewhat; but the little boy darted out, and iu 
a few minutes came running back with his pockets 
full and his hands full. 

“ I lay yo’ mammy ’ll ’spishun dat de rats' stum- 
mucks is widenin’ in dis naberhuod w’en she come 
fer ter count up ’er cakes.” said Uncle Kemus, with 
a chuckle. 

Lemme see. I mos' dis’member wharbouts llrer 
Fox and Brer Rabbit wuz.” 

“ The rabbit rode the Fox to Miss Meadows’s and 
hitched him to the horse-rack,” said the little boy. 

“ W’y co’se he did.” said Uncle Kemus. “ Co’se 
he did. Well, Brer Rabbit rid Brer Fox up, he did, 
en tied ’im to de rack, en den sot out in the peazzer 
wid de gals a smokin’ er his seegyar wid mo’ proud- 
neiss dan w’at you mos’ ever see. Bey talk, en dey 
sing, en dey play on de peanner, de gals did. twel 
biuieby hit come time for Brer Rabbit fer to be gwine, 
en he tell urn all good-by, en strut out to de boss- 
rack same’s ef he was de king er der patter-rollers^ 
en den he mount Brer Fox en ride off. 

“ Brer Fox ain’t sayin’ nuthin’ ’tall. He des rack 
off, he did, en keep his mouf shet. en Brer Rabbit 
know’d der wuz bizness cookin’ up fer him. en he feel 
monstous skittish. Brer Fox amble on twel he git in de 
long lane, outer sight er Miss Meadows’s house, en 
den he tu’n loose, he did. He ripen he r’ar, en he 
cuss en he swar ; he snort en he cavort.” 

“ What was he doing that for. Uncle Remus?” 
the little boy inquired. 

“ He wuz trvin' fer ter fling Brer Rabbit off ’n his 
back, bless yo’ soul! But he des might ez well er 
rastle wid his own shadder. Every time he hump 
his.se'f Brer Rabbit slap de spurrers in 'im, en dar 
dey had it up en down. Brer Fox fa rly to’ up de 
groun', he did, en he jump so high en he jump so 
quick, dat he mighty nigh snatch his own tail off. 
Bey kep’ on gwine on dis way twel bimeby Brer Fox 
lay down en roll over, he did, en dis sorter unsettle 
Brer Rabbit, but by de time Brer Fox got en his 
footses agin. Brer Rabbit wuz gwine thoo de under- 
bresh mo’ samer dan a race-hoss. Brer Fox, he lit 
out atter ’im, he did, en he push Brer Rabbit so 
close, dat it wuz ’bout all he could do fer ter git in a 
holler tree. Hole too little fer Brer Fox fer to git 
in, en he hatter lay down en res’ en gadder his mine 
tergedder. 


’• While he wuz layin’ dar, Mr. Buzzard come 
floppin' long, en seein’ Brer Fox stretch out on the 
groun’, he lit en view the premus.ses. Ben Mr. Buz¬ 
zard sorter shake his wing, en put his head on one 
side, en say to hisse’f like.’sezee; 

“ ‘ Brer Fox dead, en 1 so sorry,’ sezee. 

‘ No I ain’t dead, nudder,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. 
' I got ole man Rabbit pent up in yer,’ sezee, • en 
I’m gwineter git ’im dis time, ef it take twel Chris’- 
mus,’ sezee. 

“ Ben, atter some mo’ palaver. Brer Fox make a 
bargain dat Mr. Buzzard wuz ter watch de hole, en 
keep Brer Rabbit dar wiles Brer Fox went atter his 
axe. Ben Brer Fox, he lope off, he did, en Mr. 
Buzzard, he tuck up his stan’ at de hole. Bimeby, 
w’en all get still, Brer Rabbit sorter scramble down 

I ^ . 

close ter de hole, he did, en holler out: 

“ ‘ Brer Fox ! Oh ! Brer Fox ! ’ 

“ Brer Fox done gone, en nobody say nuthin.’ 
Ben Brer Rabbit squall out like he wuz mad: 

“‘You needn’t talk less you wanter,’ sezee; ‘I 
knows youer dar, an 1 ain’t keerin’, sezee. ‘ I dez 
wanter tell you dat I wish mighty bad Brer Tukkey 
Buzzard was here,’ sezee. 

“ Ben Mr. Buzzard try to talk like Brer Fox : 

“ ‘ Wat you want wid .Mr. Buzzard ? ’ sezee. 

“ ‘ Oh, nuthin’ in ’tickler, ’cep’ dere’s de fattes’ 
gray squir’l in yer dat ever I see,’ sezee, ‘ en ef Brer 
Tukkey Buzzard was ’roun’ he'd be mighty glad fer 
ter git ’im,’ sezee. 

How Mr. Buzzard gwine ter git him?’ sez de 
Buzzard, sezee. 

“ ' Well, dar’s a little hole, roun’ on de udder .^ide 
er de tree,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, ^ en ef Brer Tuk¬ 
key Buzzard was here so he could take up his stan’ 
dar, sezee, ‘ I’d drive dat S(juir’l out,’ sezee. 

“ ‘ Brive ’im out, den,’ sez Mr. Ifuzzard, sezee, 
‘en I’ll see dat Brer Tukkey Buzzard gits ’im,’ 
sezee. 

Den Brer Rabbit kick up a racket, like he wer’ 
drivin’ sumpin’ out, en Mr. Buzzard he rush ’roun’ 
fer ter ketch de squir’l, en Brer Rabbit, he dash out, 
he did, en he des fly fer home. 

“ Well, Mr. Buzzard he feel mighty lonesome, he 
did, but he done prommust Brer Eox dat he’d stay 
en he termin’ fer ter sorter hang ’roun’ en jine in de 
joke. En he ain’t hatter wait long, nudder, ka.se 




JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. 


bimeby yer come Rrer Fox gallopin’ thoo de woods 
wid his axe (>n liLs shoulder. 

'‘‘How you speck Brer Babbit gittin’ on, Brer 
Buzzard ? ’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. 

“ ‘ Oh, he in dar,’ sez Brer Buzzard, sezee. ‘ He 
mighty still, dough. I sj)eck he takin’ a nap,’ sezee. 

“‘Den I’m des in time fer te wake ’im up,’ sez 
Brer Fox, sezee. Fn wid dat he fling oft’ his coat, 
en spit in his ban’s, en grab de axe. Den he draw 
back en come down on de tree—pow ! En eve’y 
time he come down wid de axe—pow !—Mr. Buz¬ 
zard. he step high, he did. en hollar out: 

'‘ ‘ Oh. he in dar, Brer Fox. He in dar, sho.’ 

‘‘ En eve’y time a chip ud fly off, Mr. Buzzard, 
he d jump, en dodge, en hole his head sideways, he 
would, en holler: 

He in dar. Brer Fox. I done heerd im. He 
in dar, sho. 

“ ‘ En Brer Fox. he lammed away at dat holler 
tree, he did, like a man mauling’ rails, twel bimeby 
atter he done got de tree mo.st’ cut thoo, he stop f’er 
ter ketch his bref, en he seed Mr. Buzzard laflin’ be¬ 
hind his back, he di<l, en right den en dar, widout 
gwine enny fudder. Brer Fox he .smelt a rat. But 
Mr. Buzzard, he keep on holler n : 

“‘ He in dar. Brer Fox. He in dar, .sho. I done 
seed im.’ 

“ Den Brer Fox. he make like he peepin’ up de 
holler, eii he .say. .sezee : 

“ ‘ Bun yer. Brer Buzzard, en look ef dis ain't I 
Bi er Babbit's foot hanging down yer.’ 

“ En Mr. Buzzard, he come steppin’ up, he did, 
same ez ef he were treddin’ on kurkle-burrs, en he 
stick his head in de hole ; en no sooner did he done 
dat dan Brer Fox grab ’im. Mr. Buzzaril flap his 
wings, en scramble roun’ right smartually, he did, ^ 
but 'twan no use. Brer Fox had de ’vantage er de j 


523 

grip, he did, en he hilt ’im right down ter de groun’. 
Den Mr. Buzzard stjuall out, sezee: 

“ ‘ Demme lone. Brer Fox. Tu’n me loose,’ sezee; 
‘ Brer Babbit’ll git out. Youer gittin’ close at ’im,’ 
sezee, ‘ en leb’m mo’ licks’ll fetch ’im,’ sezee. 

“ ‘ I’m nigher ter you. Brer Buzzard,’ sez Brer 
Fox, sezee, • dan I’ll be ter Brer Babbit dis day,’ 
sezee. ‘ Wat you fool me fer’ sezee. 

“ ‘ Demme lone. Brer Fox,’ sez Mr. Buzzard, 
sezee; ‘ my ole ’oman waitin’ for me. Brer Babbit 
in dar,’ sezee, 

“ Dar’s a bunch er his fur on dat black-be’y bush,’ 
sez Brer Fox, sezee, ‘ en dat ain’t de way he come,’ 
sezee. 

“ Den Mr. Buzzard up’n tell Brer Fox how ’twuz, 
en he low’d, Mr. Buzzard did, dat Brer Babbit wuz 
de low-downest w’atsizname w’at he ever run up wid. 
Den Brer Fox say, sezee : 

“ ‘ Dat’s needer here ner dar. Brer Buzzard,’ sezee. 

‘ I lef’ you yer fer ter watch di.sh yer hole en I lef’ 
Brer Babbit in dar. I comes back en I fines you at 
de hole, en Brer Babbit ain’t in dar,’ sezee. ‘ I’m 
gwinter make you pay fer’t. I done bin tampered 
wid twel plum down ter de sap sucker’ll .set on a log 
en sassy me. I’m gwinter fling you in a bresh-heap 
en burn you up.’ .sezee. 

“ ‘ Ef you fling me on der fier. Brer Fox, I’ll fly 
’way,’ sez Mr. Buzzard, sezee. 

“ ‘ Well, den. I’ll settle yo’ hash right now,’ sez 
Brer Fox, .sezee, en wid dat he grab Mr. Buzzard by 
de tail, he did, en make fer ter da.sh im ’gin de 
groun’, but des ’bout dat time de tail fedders come 
out, en Mr. Buzzard sail off like wunner dese yer 
berloons, en ez he riz, he holler back ; 

“ ‘ You- gimme good start, Brer Fox,' .sezee, en 
Brer Fox sot dar en watch ’im fly outer sight.” 











. .. 

C1> ft ^ ft C^J3) & <9 C^, (D CT O g»i 0 (5 g q!i» g».:^ g|g 





b 1 t j) via q'q >a :ill (i)b (^~(Ji CJ UKJ (3) tt Cii bi' <(j> fj) cJ(T1? g Qi = 

HMiiiiimMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiMiriiiriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiir? 




ROBERT J. BURDETTE. 

HE American people have a kindly feeling for the men who make 
them laugh, and in no other country does a humorist have a more 
a])preciative public. The result has been, that in a country in which 
the average native has a clearly marked vein of humor, the genuine 
“ funny man ” is always sure of a hearty welcome. AVe have a long 
list of writers and lecturers who have gained a wide ])opularity 
through their mirth-provoking powers, and “ Bob Bu-rdette ” holds an honorable 
place in this guild of “ funny men.” 

Irle was born in Greensborough, Pennsylvania, July 30, 1844, though he 
removed early in life to Peoria, Ill., where he received his education in the public 
schools. 

He enlisted in the Civil AA^ar and served as a private from 1862 to the end of 
the war. 

He began his journalistic career on the Peoria “ Transcript',” and, after jTeriods of 
editorial connection with other local newspa])ers, he became associate editor of the 
Burlington “ Hawkeye,” Iowa. His humorous contributions to this journal wei-e 
widely cojued and they gave him a general reputation. His reputation as a writer 
had prepared the way for his success as a lecturer, and in 1877 he entered the lec¬ 
ture field, in which he has been eminently successful. He has lectured in nearly all 
the citie.sof the United States, and he never fails to amuse his listeners. 

He is a lay preacher of the Baptist C'hurch, and it is often a surprise to those 
who have heard only his humorous sayings to hear him speak with earnestness and 
serious persuasiveness of the deeper things of life, for he is a man of deep exper¬ 
iences and of pure ideals. 

His most popular lectures have been those on “The Pise and Fall of the Mus¬ 
tache,” “ Home,” and “ The Pilgrimage of the Funny Alan.” He has published 
in book-form, “ The Pise and hAill of the Alustache and Other Hawkeyetems ” 
(Burlington, 1877), “ Hawkeyes ” (1880), “Life of William Penn” (New York, 
1882), a volume in the series of “ Comic Biographies ; ” and “ Innach Garden and 
other (’omic Sketches” (1886). 

He has been a frequent contributor to the Ladies’ Home Journal and other cur¬ 
rent literature, and he has recently written a convulsive description of “ How I 
Learned to Ride the Bicycle,” which appeared in the Wheelmen. 

He has for some years made his home at Bryn Alawr, Pennsylvania, and he 
enjoys a large circle of friends. 



524 































ROBERT J. BURDETTE. 


525 


TliK MOVEMENT CT'KE FOR RHEUMATISM.* 



fNE day, not a great while ago, Mr. Mid- 
dlerib read in his favorite paper a para¬ 
graph copied from the Prieger L<ind- 
wirt/isckaftlic/ies Wochenblaff, a German paper, which 
is an accepted authority on such points, stating that 
the sting of a bee was a sure cure for rheumatism, 
and citing several remarkable instances in which peo- 
had been perfectly cured by this abrupt remedy. 
Mr. Middlerib did not stop to reflect that a paper 
with such a name as that would be very apt to say 
anything; he only thought of the rheumatic twinges 
that grappled his knees once in a while, and made 
life a burden to him. 

He read the article several times, and pondered 
over it. He understood that the stinging must be 
done scientifically and thoroughly. The bee, as he 
understood the article, was to be gripped by the ears 
and .set down upon the rheumatic joint, and held 
there until it stung itself stingless. He had some 
misgivings about the matter. He knew it would 
hurt. He hardly thought it could hurt any worse 
than the rheumatism, and it had been so many years 
since he was stung by a bee that he had almost for¬ 
gotten what it felt like. He had, however, a general 
feeling that it would hurt some. But desperate 
diseases required desperate remedies, and Mr. IMid- 
dlerib was willing to undergo any amount of suffer¬ 
ing if it would cure his rheumatism. 

He contracted with Master Middlerib for a limited 
supply of bees. There were bees and bees, hum¬ 
ming; and buzzing about in the summer air, but Mr. 
Middlerib did not know how to get them. He felt, | 
however, that he could depend upon the in.stincts and ^ 
methods of boyhood. He knew that if there was j 
any way in heaven or earth whereby the shyest bee | 
that ever lifted a 200-pound man off the clover, 1 
could be induced to enter a wide-mouthed glass 
bottle, his son knew that way. 

For the small sum of one dime Master Middlerib 
agreed to procure several, to-wit: six bees, age not 
specified; but as Mr. Middlerib was left in uncer- 
taintv as t<i the race, it was made obligatory upon the 
contractor to have three of them honey, and three 
humble, or in the generally accepted vernacular, 
bumble bees. iMr. Middlerib did not tell his son 
what he wanted those bees for. and the boy went off 


on his mission, with his head so full of astonishment 
that it fairly whirled. Evening brings all home, and 
the last rays of the declining sun fell upon Master 
Middlerib with a short, wide-mouthed bottle com¬ 
fortably populated with hot, ill-natured bees, and 
Mr. Middlerib and a dime. The dime and the bottle 
changed hands and the boy was happy. 

Mr. Middlerib put the bottle in his coat pocket 
and went into the house, eyeing everybody he met 
very susf)iciously, as though he had made up his 
mind to sting to death the first person that said 
“ bee ” to him. He confided his guilty secret to none 
of his family. He hid his bees in his bedroom, and 
as he looked at them just before putting them away, 
he half wdshed the experiment was safely over. He 
wished the imprisoned bees didn’t look so hot and 
cross. "With exquisite care he submerged the bottle 
in a basin of water, and let a few drops in on the 
heated inmates, to cool them off. 

At the tea-table he had a great fight. Miss Mid¬ 
dlerib, in the artless simplicity of her romantic nature 
said : “ I smell bees. How the odor brings up-” 

But her father glared at her, and said, with super¬ 
fluous har.shness and execrable grammar: 

“ Hush up ! You don’t smell nothing.” 

Whereupon IMrs. Middlerib asked him if he had 
eaten anything that disagreed with him, and Miss 
Middlerib said : “ Why, pa ! ” and Master IMiddlerib 
smiled as he wondered. 

Bedtime came at last, and the night was warm 
and sultry. Under various false })retences, Mr. IMid- 
dlerib strolled about the house until everybody else 
was in bed, and then he sought his room. He turned 
the night-lamp down until its feeble rays shone 
dimly as a death-light. 

Mr. Middlerib disrobed slowly—very slowly. When 
at last he was ready to go lumbering into his peace¬ 
ful couch, he heaved a profound sigh, so full of ap¬ 
prehension and grief that IMrs. Middlerib, who was 
awakened by it, said if it gave him so much pain to 
come to bed, perhaps he had better sit up all night. 
Mr. Middlerib checked another sigh, but .said nothing 
and crept into bed. After lying .still a few moments 
he reached out and got his bottle of bees. 

It is not an easy thing to do, to pick one bee out 
of a bottle full, with his fingers, and not get into 


* Coj)yriglit, li. J. lUirdetle. 







526 


ROBEKT J. BURDETTE. 


trouble. The first bee Mr. Middlerili got was a little ; 
brown honey-bee that wouldn't weigh half an ounce 
if you picked him up by the ears, but if you lifted 
him by the hind leg as Mr. Middlerib did, would 
weigh as much as the last end of a bay mule. Mr. 
Middlerib could not repress a groan. 

“ What's the matter with you ? ” sleejuly asked 
his wife. 

It was very hard for ]Mr. Middlerib to say ; he : 
only knew his temj)erature had risen to SG all over, j 
and to 197 on the end of his thumb. lie reversed 
the bee and pressed the warlike terminus of it firmly 
against his rheumatic knee. 

It didn’t hurt so badly as he thought it would. 

It didn’t hurt at all! 

Then Mr. Middlerib remembered that when the 
honey-bee stabs a human foe it generally leaves its 
harpoon in the wound, and the invalid knew then the 
only thing the bee had to sting with was doing its 
work at the end of his thumb. 

He reached his arm out from under the sheet, and 
dropped this disabled atom of rheumatism liniment 
on the carpet. Then, after a second of blank wonder, 
he began to feel around for the bottle, and wished he 
knew what he had done with it. 

In the meantime, strange things had been going 
on. When he caught hold of the first bee, ^Ir. 
Middlerib. for reasons, drew it out in such haste that 
for the time he forgot all about the bottle and its ; 
remedial contents, and left it lying uncorked in the ^ 
bed. In the darkness there had been a quiet but j 
general emigration from that bottle. The bees, their j 
wings clogged with the water Mr. Middlerib had ' 
poured upon them to cool and tranquilize them, were 
crawling aimlessly about over the sheet. While Mr. 
Middlerib was feeling around for it, his ears were i 
suddenly thrilled and his heart frozen by a wild, ^ 
piercing scream from his wife. 

“Murder!” she screamed, “murder! Oh. help 
me! Help! help!” 

Mr. Middlerib sat bold upright in bed. HLs hair 
stood on end. The night was very warm, but he 
turned to ice in a minute. 


•• Where, oh, where,” he said, with pallid lips, as 
he felt all over the bed in frenzied haste—" where in 
the world are those inlernal bees?” 

And a large “ bumble,” with a sting as pitiless as 
the finger of scorn, just then lighted between Mr, 
Middlerib’s shoulders, and went for his marrow, and 
said calmly ; “ Here is one of them.” 

And Mrs. Middlerib felt ashamed t)f her feeble 
.screams when Mr. iNliddlerib threw up both arms, 
and, with a howl that made the windows rattle, 
roared: 

“ Take him off! Oh, land of .Scott, .somebody take 
him off! ” 

And when a little honey-bee began tickling the 
sole of Mrs. Middlerib’s foot, she shrieked that the 
house was bewitched, and immediately went into 
spasms. 

The household was aroused by this time. Miss 
Middlerib, and Master Middlerib and the servants 
were pouring iiito the room, adding to the general 
confusion, by howling at random and asking irrelevant 
questions, while they gazed at the figure of a man, 
a little on in years, pawing fiercely at the unattain¬ 
able spot in the middle of his back, while he danced 
an unnatural, weird, wicked-looking jig by the dim 
religious light of the night lamp. 

And while he danced and howled, and while they 
gazed and shouted, a navy-blue wasp, that Master 
Middlerib had put in the hottle for good measure and 
variety, and to keep the menagerie stirred up, had 
diied his legs and wings with a corner of the sheet, 
after a preliminary circle or two around the bed, to 
get up his motion and settle down to a working gait, 
fired him.self acro.ss the room, and to his living day 
Mr. Middlerib will always believe that one of the 
servants mistook him for a burglar, and .^hot him. 

No one, not even Mr. ^Middlerib him.self. could 
doubt that he was, at least for the time, mo.st thor¬ 
oughly cured of rheumatism. His own boy could 
not have carried hiimseH’ more lightly or with greater 
agility. But the cure was not permanent, and ]'lr. 
Middlerib does not like to talk about it. 








LOUISA M.ALCOTT 

AUTHOR Of Lime tVOAffH 


SAPA JANE LIPPINCOT 

'fie£MH/t)QD 






















LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. 

AUTHOR OF “ LITTLE WOMI^N.” 


HE laiiious autlior of “ Little Women,” “ Little Men,” and “Old- 
Fajjliioiied Girls,” made her beginning, as have many who have done 
any good or acquired fame in the world, by de])ending on herself. In 
other words, she was the architect of her own fortune, and has left be¬ 
hind herworks thatwill endure to gladden the heartsof millionsof boys 
and girls. But she has done more. She has left behind her a record 
of a life within itself, a benediction and inspiration to every thoughtful girl who reads it. 

While Miss Alcott always considered New England her home, she was actually 
lorn in Germantown, Philadelphia, November 2tJ, 1832. Her father, Amos Bron- 
n Alcott, after his marriage in New England, accepted a position as j^rincipal of a 
•niantown Academy, which he occupied from 1831 to 1834, and afterwards taught 
uildren’s school at his own residence, but he was unsuccessful and he returned to 
^oston in 183o, when Louisa was two years old. 

From this time forward, Mr. Alcott was a close friend and associate of the poet 
and philoso]dier Emerson, sharing with him his transcendental doctrines, and join¬ 
ing in the Brook-Farm experiment of ideal communism at Boxbury, Mass. The 
Brook-Farm experiimmt brought ]\lr. Alcott to utter financial ruin, and after its 
failure he removed to Concord, where he continued to live until his death. It was 
at this time that Louisa, although a mere child, formed a noble and unselfish pur- 
nose to retrieve the family fortune. AVhen oidy fifteen years of age, she turned her 
oughts to teaching, her first school being in a barn and attended by the child- 
1 of Mr. Emerson and other neighbors. Almost at the same time she began to 
npose fairv stories, which were contributed to jiapers ; but these early productions 
3 ught her little if any compensation, and she continued to devote herself to teacli- 
’, receiving her own education privately from her father. “ When I was twenty- 
years of age,” she wrote many years later to a friend, “ I took my little earnings 
4) and a few clothes, and went out to seek my fortune, though I might have sat still 
been supported by rich friends. All those hard years were teacliing me what I 
wards put into books, and so I made my fortune out of my seeming misfortune.” 
wo years after this brave start Miss Alcott’s earliest book, “ Fairy Tales,” was 
lished (18oo). About the same time her work began to be accepted by the 
itlantic Monthly ” and other magazines of reputation. During the winters of 
-82 and ’63 she volunteered her services and went to AVashington and served as a 
' arse in the government hospitals, and her experiences here were embodied in a 

527 























528 


LOUISA MAY ALC'OTT. 


series of graphic letters to her mother and sisters. These letters she revised and 
had printed in the “ Boston Commonwealth ” in the summer of 1863. They were 
afterwards issued in a volume entitled “ Hospital Sketches and Camp-Fire Stories.” 
This was her second book, which, together with , her magazine articles, opened the 
way to a splendid career as an author. 

Being naturally fond of young people, Miss Alcott turned her attention from this 
time forward to writing for them. Her distinctive books for the young are entitled 
“Moods” (1864); “Morning Glories” (1867); “Little Women” (1868), which 
washer first decided success; “ An Old-Fashioned Girl” (1869); “Little Men” 
(1871); “Work” (1873); “Eight Cousins” (1875), and its sequel, “Bo.se in 
Bloom ” (1877), which perha})s ranks first among her books ; “ Lender the Lilacs ” 
(1878) ; “ Jack and Jill ” (1880), and “ Lulu’s Library ” (1885). Be.sides these she 
has put forth, at different times, several volumes of short stories, among which are 
“ Cupid and Chow-Chow,” “ Silver Pitchers ” and “ Aunt Joe’s Scrap-bag.’’ 

From childhood Miss Alcott was under the tutelage of the Emeisonian school, 
and was not less than her father an admirer of the “Seer of Concord.” “Those 
Concord days,” she writes, “were among the happiest of my life, for we had the 
charming playmates in the little Emersons, Channings, and Hawthornes, with their 
illustrious parents, to enjoy our pranks and join our excursions.” 

In speaking of Emerson she also wrote to a young woman a few years before 
her death: “Theodore Parker and Balph AValdo Emerson have done much to 
help me see that one can shape life best by trying to build up a strong and noble 
character, through good books, wise people’s society, and by taking an interest in 
all reforms that help the world, . . . believing always that a loving and just Father 
cares for us, sees our weakness, and is near to help if we call.” Continuing she 
asks: “Have you read Emerson? He is called a Pantheist, or believer in nature, 
instead of God. He was truly a Christian and saw God in nature, finding strength 
and comfort in the same sweet influence of the great Mother as well as the great 
Father of all. I, too, believe this, and when tired, sad or tempted, find my best 
comfort in the woods, the sky, the healing solitude that lets my poor, weary soul 
find the rest, the fresh hopes, the patience which only God can give us.” 

The chief aim of Miss Alcott seemed to have been to make others happy. Many 
are the letters treasured up by young authors who often, but never in vain, sought 
her advice and kind assistance. To one young woman who asked her opinion on 
certain new books, in 1884, she wrote: “About books; yes, I’ve read ‘Mr. Isaacs’ 
and ‘Dr. Claudius,’* and like them both. The other, “To Leeward,” is not so 
good; ‘Little Pilgrim’ was pretty, but why try to paint heaven ? Let it alone and 
prepare for it, whatever it is, sure that God knows what we need and deserve. I 
will send you Emerson’s ‘Essays.’ Read those marked. I hope they will be as 
helpful to you as they have been to me and many others. They will bear study 
and I think are what you need to feed upon now.” The marked es^says were those 
on “Compensation,” “Love,” “Friendship,” “Heroism,” ami “Self-Reliance.” 

Miss Alcott’s kindness for young people grew with her advancing years. Being 
a maiden lady without daughtei'S of her own, she was looked uj) to and delighted 
in being considered as a foster-mother to aspiring girls all over the land. How 

* These are the books that made F. Marion Crawford famous. 


LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. 


529 


many times she wrote similar sentences to this: “Write freely to me, dear girl, and 
if 1 can help you in any way be sure I will.” This was written to one she had 
never seen and only four years before her death, when she was far from well. 

Miss Alcott died in Boston, March 6, 1888, at the age of fifty-six years, and just 
two days after her aged father, who was eighty-five years old, and who had 
depended on her many years, passed away. Though a gi-eat advocate of work for 
the health, she was, no doubt, a victim of overwork; for it is said slie frequently 
<levoted from twelve to fifteen hours a day to her literary labors, . . . besides looking 
after her business affairs and caring personally for her old father, for many yeai’s 
an invalid. In addition to this, she educated some of her poor relatives, and still 
further took the place of a mother to little Lulu, the daughter of her sister, May, 
who died when the child was an infant. 


now JO MADE FRIENDS.* 

tFROM “LITTLE WOMEN.”) 


[P^^^jlTAT boy is suffering fur society and fun,” 
|^Qi she said to herself. “ His grandpa don’t 
know what’s good for him. and keeps him 
shut up all alone, lie needs a lot of jolly boys to 
play with, or somebody young and lively. I’ve a 
great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so.” 

The idea aniiused Jo, who liked to do daring things, 
and was always scandalizing IMeg by her queer per¬ 
formances. The plan of “ going over ” was not for¬ 
gotten ; and, when the snowy afternoon came, Jo 
resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. 
Laurence drive off, and then sailed out to dig her way 
down to the hedge, where she paused and took a sur¬ 
vey. All quiet; curtains down to the lower win¬ 
dows ; servants out of sight, and nothing human 
visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand, 
at the upper window. 

“ There he is,” thought Jo; “ poor boy, all alone, 
and sick, this dismal day ! It’s a shame! I’ll toss 
up a snowball, and make him look out, and then say 
a kind word to him.” 

Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head 
turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless 
look in a minute, as .the big eyes brightened, and the 
mouth began to smile. Jo nodded, and laughed, 
and flouri.shed her broom, as she called out, 

“ How do you do ? Are you sick ? 

Laurie opened the window and croaked out as 
hoarsely as a raven,— 

*Oopyriglit, 


“ Better, thank you. I’ve had a horrid cold, and 
have been shut up a week.” 

I’m sorry. What do you amuse yourself with ?" 

“ Nothing ; it’s as dull as tombs up here.” 

“ Don’t you read ?” 

“ Not much; they won’t let me.” 

“ Can’t somebody read to you?” 

“ Grandpa does, sometimes ; but my books don’t in¬ 
terest him, and I hate to ask Brooke all the time.” 

“ Have some one come and see you, then.” 

“ There isn’t any one I’d like to see. Boys make 
such a row, and my head is weak.” 

“ Isn’t there some nice girl who’d read and amuse 
you? Girls are quiet, and like to play nurse.” 

“ Don’t know any.” 

“ You know me,” began Jo, then laughed and 
stopped. 

“ So I do ! Will you come, please ?” cried Laurie. 

“ I’m not quiet and nice; but I'll come, if mother 
will let me. I’ll go ask her. Shut that window, 
like a good boy, and wait till I come. 

“ Oh ! that does me lots of good ; tell on, please,” 
he said, taking his face out of the sofa-cushion, red 
and shining with merriment. 

Much elevated with her success, Jo did “ tell on,” 
all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears 
for father, and the most interesting events of the 
little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got 
to talking about books ; and to Jo’s delight she found 
Roberts Bros. 


34 






530 


LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. 


that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had 
read even more than herself. 

“ If you like them so much, come down and see ours. 
Grandpa is out, so you needn’t be afraid,” said Laurie, 
getting up. 

“ I'm not afraid of anything,” returned Jo, with a 
toss of the head. 

“ I don t believe you are!” exclaimed the boy, 
looking at her with much admiration, though he 
privately thought she would have good reason to be a 
trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in 
some of his moods. 

The atmosphere of the whole house being summer- 
like, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting 
Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy ; and 
so at last they came to the library, where she cla)i))ed 
her hands, and pranced, as she always did when 
specially delighted. It was lined with books, and 
there were pictures and statues, and distracting little 
cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleep-Hol¬ 
low chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes; and, best 
of all, a great, open fireplace, with quaint tiles all 
round it. 

“ What richness!” sighed Jo, sinking into the 
depths of a velvet chair, and gazing about her with 
an air of intense satisfaction. “ Theodore Laurence, 
you ought to be the hap))iest boy in the world,” she 
added impressively. 

“ A fellow can’t live on books,” said Laurie, shak¬ 
ing his head, as he perched on a table opposite. 

Before he could say any more, a bell rang, and Jo 


flew up, exclaiming with alarm, “ Mercy me ! it’s your 
grandpa!” 

“ Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of any¬ 
thing, you know,” returned the boy, looking wicked. 

“ I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I 
don’t know why I should be. 31armee said I might 
come, and I don’t think you are any the worse for 
it,” said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her 
eyes on the door. 

“ I’m a great deal better for it, and ever so much 
obliged. I’m afraid you are very tired talking to me ; 
it was so pleasant, I couldn’t bear to stop,” said Laurie 
gratefully. 

“ The doctor to see you, sir,” and the maid beckoned 
as she spoke. 

“ AVould you mind if I left you for a minute ? I 
suppose I must see him,” said Laurie. 

“ Don’t mind me. I’m as happy as a cricket 
here,” answered Jo. 

Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in 
her own w'ay. She was standing before a fine por¬ 
trait of the old gentleman, when the door opened 
again, and, without turning, she said decidedly, “ I’m 
sure now that I shouldn’t be afraid of him, for he’s 
got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks 
as if he had a tremendous will of his own. lie isn’t 
as handsome as grandfather, but I like him.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” said a gruflP voice behind 
her; and there, to her great dismay, stood old Mr. 
Laurence. 







^iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!! 



a 0 0 »»«(*» « & « »«cii « 9 » « « e* 0 cs 0 « e» 0 & »? 

lE 


ii 

'4'’ gki iki Ac AC 

i = 

SE 



yr...''e'..'0'..yi'. .-'i vy -'i\.ylvye. .-e.yi*.yi’-..-0'.^-o'..yTs ye..,--0'-. G 

^E 
5 = 



0 (S a'o Oi Ci) u) Qi ('4 (S 0 QQQQ&Q Q U Oi W Q Q ■,.) lii (S) 0.4 (3) (4 & (4 GlG 

i = 


^IIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIIIIIIMIIlirllllllllirlllllllMIIIMIIIIIIIIIMMIIIIIIIIIIIIIMIIIMinillllllF 





WILLIAM TAYLOR ADAMS. 



THE WELL-BELOVED WHITER FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. 

ROBABLY no literary man in America has ministered to the pleasure 
ot a greater number of our young people than William Taylor 
Adams, who is a native of Massachusetts and was born in Medway 
in 1822. He has devoted his life to young peoj)le; for more than 
twenty yeai'S as a teacher in the public schools of Boston, for many 
years a member of the school board of Dorchester, and since 1850 
as a writer of stories. In his earlier life, he was the editor of a periodical known as 
“The Student and Schoolmate.” In 1881 he began the publication of “Our Little 
Ones,” and later “ Oliver Optic’s Magazine for Boys and Girls.” His fir.st book 
was published in 1853; it was entitled “ Hatchie, the Guardian Slave,” and had a 
large sale. It was followed by a collection of stories called “In Doors and Out,” 
and in 1802 was completed “ The Riverdale Series ” of six volumes of stories for 
boys. Some of his other books are “The Boat Club;” “Woodville;” “Young 
America Abroad ;” “ Starry Flag ;” “ Onward and Upward ; ” “ Yacht Club; ” and 
“ Great Western.” In all he has written at least a thousand stories for newspapers, 
and publi.shed about a hundred volumes. Among these are two novels for older 
readers : “ The Way of the AVorld ” and “ Living'Too Fast.” 

Mr. Adams’ style is both pleasing and simple. His stories are frequently based 
upon scenes of history and their influence is always for good. 


THE SLOOP THAT WENT TO THE BOTTOM* 

(FROM “ SNUO HARBOR,” 188.3.) 


TAKBOAPiD your helm ! hard a-starboard !” 
.shouted Dory Dornwood, as lie put the 
helm of the “ Goldwin" ” to port in order 
to avoid a collision with a steam launch which lay dead 
ahead of the .schooner. 

“ Keep off! you will sink me ! ” cried a younc man 
in a .sloop-boat, wdiich lay exactly in the course of the 
steam launch. “ That’s ju.st what I mean to do, if 
you don’t come about,” yelled a man at the w’heel of 


the steamer. “ Why didn’t you stop when I called 
to you ?” 

“ Keep off. or you will he into me ! ” .screamed the 
.skipper of the sloop, whose tones and manner indicated 
that he was very much terrified at the situation. 

And he had reason enough to be alarmed. It was 
plain, from his management of his boat, that he was 
but an indifferent boatman ; and jirobably he did not 
know what to do in the emergency. Dnry had noticed 
* Copyright, Lee & Shepard. 

531 






































532 


WILLIAM TAA'LOK ADAMS. 


the sloop coming up the lake with the steam launch j 
astern of her. The latter had run ahead of the sloop, 
and had come about, it now appeared, for the purj>ose 
of intercepting her. 

When the skipper of the slooj* realized the inten¬ 
tion of the helmsman of the steamer, he put hi.s helm 
to port; but he was too late. The sharp bow of the 
launch struck the frail cruft amidships, and cut 
through her a.s though she had been made ol' card¬ 
board. 

The sloop tilled instantly, and, a moment later, the 
young man in her was struggling (ui the surface of the i 
water. The boat was heavily ballasted, and she went 
down like a lump of lead. It was soon clear to Dory i 
tliat the skipper could not swim, for he screamed as 
though the end of all thing.s had come. 

\'ery likely it would have been the end of all things 
to him, if Dory had not come about with the “ Gold. I 
wing,” and stood over the )»lace where the young man I 
was vainly beating the water with his feet and hands. 
^Vith no great difficulty the skipjter of the “ Gold¬ 
wing,” who was an af|uatic bird of the first water^ j 
pulled in the victim of the catastrojdie, in spite of the 
apparent efforts of the sufferer to prevent him from 
doing so. ^ 

“You had a narrow squeak that time.” said Dory 
])ornwood. as .soon as he thought the victim of the 
disaster was in condition to do a little talking. “ It 
is lucky you didn’t get tangled up in the rigging of I 


your boat, .'^he went to the bottom like a }»ound of 
carpet-tacks ; and she would have carried you down iu 
a hurry if you hadn’t let go in short metre.” 

•• I think 1 am remarkably fortunate in being 
among the living at this moment,” rejtlied the .stranger, 
looking out over the stern of the “ Goldwing.” ‘‘That 
was the most atrocious thing a fellow ever did.” 

*• What was ?” imjuired Dory, who was not <juite 
sure what the victim meant by the remark, or whether 
he alluded to him or to the man in the steam launch. 

“ Why, running into me like that.” protested the 
passenger, with no little indignation in his tones. 

“ 1 suppose you came up from Durlington?” .said 
Dory, suggestively, as though he considered an ex- 
])lanation on the jtart of the stranger to be in order at 
the present time. 

‘‘ I have just come from Burlington. " answered the 
victim, who appeared to be disposed to say nothing 
more. “ Do you suppose 1 can get that boat again?” 

“ I should sa}' that the chance of getting her again 
was not first-rate. She went down where the water 
is about two hundred and fifty feet deep ; and it won’t 
be an easy thing to get hold of her.” replied Dory. 
‘‘ If you had let him nin into you between Diamond 
Lsland and Porter's Bay, where the water is not more 
than fifty or .sixty feet deep, you could have raised lier 
without much difficulty. 1 don’t believe you will ever 
see her again.’ 


' * (?) A 




ym 

X 


fmPmimMrimimjpminpiiMiymiMiy 

:^;y;v'^/. v'^'. .-^w- s^y: '.<W'-: sW ▼ .<W--. :.<^, 










w % M ♦"' ♦ ♦" ♦ w r %' 


^iii^tiiiiitiiihliiiiniiintiiiimiiiltiiiiiiniiininiHiiiiniiiiniiihtiiiiinniiiflliim^ 


HORATIO ALOKR. 

S n writer of books at once entertaining; and at the same time of a 
liealthy and earnest cliaracter a parent cannot recommend to his boys 
a more wholesome author than Horatio Alger, Jr. Mr. Alger 
always writes with a careful regard to truth and to tlie right princi- 
ples. His heroes captivate the imagination, hut they do not inflame 
it, and they are generally worthy examples for the emulation of boys. 
At the same time he is in no sense a preacher. His hooks have the true juvenile 
flavor and charm, and, like the sugar pills of the honujeopathist, carry the good medi¬ 
cine of morality, bravery, industry, enterpri.se, honor—everything that goes to make 
up the true manly and noble character, so subtly woven into the thread of his intei- 
esting narrative that the writer without detecting its presence receives the whole¬ 
some henetit. 

Mr. Alger became famous in the ])uhlication of that undying hook, “ Ragged 
Hick ; or, Street Life in New York.” It was his first hook for young people, and its 
success was so great that he immediately devoted himself to writing for young 
j)eople, which he has since continued. It was a new field for a writer when Mr. 
Alger began, and his tieatnient of it at once caught the fancy of the boys. 
“Ragged Dick” fiist appeared in 1<S()8, and since then it has been selling steadily 
until now it is estimated that over two hundred thousand co})ies of the series have 
})assed into circulation. Mr. Alger possesses in an eminent degree that sympathy 
with hoys which a writei- must have to meet with success. He is able to enter iiito 
their plans, hopes, and aspirations. He know'S how to look upon life as they do. 
He writes straight at them as one from their ranks and not down upon them as a 
towering fatherly adviser. A hoy’s heait naturally opens to a writer who tinder- 
stands him and makes a companion of him. This, we believe, accounts for the 
enormous sale of the hooks of this writei*. We are told that about three-cjuarters of a 
million copies of his hooks have been sold and that all the large circulating libraries* 
in the country have several conijdete sets of them, of which hut few volumes are 
found on the shelves at one time. 

Horatio Algei*, Jr., was horn in Revere, Massachusetts, January 18, 1884. 
He graduated at Harvard University in 1852, after which he s})ent several years in 
teaching and newspaper woi k. In 1864 he was ordained as a Unitarian minister 
and served a Massachusetts church for two years. It was in 1866 that he took up 
his residence in New A^oi*k and became deeply intei*ested in the street boys and 
exerted what influence he could to the bettering of their condition. His experience 
in this work furnished him with the information out of which grew many of his 
later writings. 



533 












534 


HORATIO ALGER. 


To enunierate the various volumes published by this author would be tedious. 
They have generally been issued in series. Several volumes complete one subject 
or theme. His first published book was “Bertha’s Christmas Vision” (1855). 
Succeeding this came “ Nothing to Do,” a tilt at our best society, in vei’se (1857); 
“ Frank’s Campaign ; or. What a Boy Can Do” (1864); “ Helen Ford,” a novel, 
and also a volume of poems (1866). The “ Ragged Dick ” series began in 1868. 
and com])rises six volumes. Succeeding this came “Tattei’ed Tom,” first and 
second series, comprising eight volumes. The entire fourteen volumes above 
referred to are devoted to New York street life of boys. “ Ragged Dick ” has served 
as a model for many a poor boy struggling upward, while the influence of Phil the 
fiddler in the “ Tattered Tom ” series is credited with having had much to do in 
the abolishment of the padrone system. The “ Campaign Series ” comprised thr(‘e 
volumes; the “ Luck and Pluck Series” eight; the “Brave and Bold” four; the 
“ Pacific Series” four; the “ Atlantic Series ” four; “ Way to Success” four; the 
“ New World ” three ; the “ Victory Series ” three. All of these were published 
])rior to 1896. Since the beginning of 1896 have appeared “ Frank Hunter’s Peril,” 
“ The Young Salesman ” and other later works, all of which have met with the 
usual cordial reception accorded by the hoys and girls to the books of this favorite 
author. It is perhaps but just to say, now that Oliver Optic is gone, that Mr. 
Alger has attained distinction as the most })opular writer of books for boys in 
America, and perhaps no other writer for the young has ever stimulated and 
encouraged earnest boys in their efforts to rise in the world or so strengthened their 
will to persevere in well-doing, and at the .same time written stories so real that 
every one, young and old, delights to read them. He not oidy writes interesting 
and even thrilling stories, but what is of very great importance, they are always 
clean and healthy. 


TTOW DICK BCCtAX THE DAY.* * 

(from “ RAGGED DICK ; OR, STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK.”) 


m 


.\KE up. there, youngster,” said a rough 
voice. 

Bagged Dick opened his eyes slowly and 


Made it on shines, in course. My guardian don’t 
allow me no money for theatres, so T have to earn it.” 
“ Some boys get it easier than that,” said the 


stared stupidly in the face of the speaker, but did not' porter, significantly. 


offer to get up. 


“You don’t catch me stealing, if that's what you 


Wake up, you young vagabond ! ” .said the man a mean.” said Dick. 


*little impatiently ; “ I suppose you’d lay there all day 
if I hadn’t called you.” 

“ What time is it ?” asked Dick. 

Seven o’clock.” 

“ Seven o’clock ! I oughter’ve been up an hour 
ago. I know what ’twas made me so precious sleepy. 
I went to the Old Bowery last night and didn’t turn 
in till past twelve.” 


'• Don’t you ever steal, then ?” 

“ No. and I wouldn’t. Lots of boys does it, but I 
wouldn’t.” 

“ Well, I’m glad to hear you say that. I believe 
there’s .some good in you, Dick, after all.” 

“ Oh. I’m a rough customer,” .said Dick. “ But I 
wouldn’t steal. It’s mean.” 

“ I’m glad you think so, Dick,” and the rough voice 


“ You went to the Old Bowery? Where’d you get | sounded gentler than at first. “ Have you got any 
your money ?” asked the man. who was a porter in money to buy your bre.akfast ? ” 
the employ of a firm doing business on Spruce Street. ! “ No ; but I’ll soon have some.” 

■S'Ctipyright, Porter & Coates. 







HORATIO ALGER. 


535 


While this conversation had been goin" on Dick 
had got up. Ilis bed-chamber had been a wooden 
box, half full of straw, on which the young boot- 
black had reposed his weary limbs and slept as soundly 
as if it had been a bed of down. He dumped down 
into the straw without taking the trouble of undress¬ 
ing. Getting up, too, was an equally short process. 
He jumped out of the box, shook himself, picked out 
one or two straws that had found their way into rents 
in his clothes, and, drawing a well-worn cap over his 
uncombed locks, he was all ready for the business of 
the day. 

Dick’s appearance, as he stood beside the box, was 
rather peculiar. His pants were torn in several 
places, and had apparently belonged in the first in¬ 
stance to a boy two sizes larger than himself. He 
wore a vest, all the buttons of which were gone ex¬ 
cept two, out of which peeped a shirt which looked as 
if it had been worn a month. To complete his costume 
he wore a coat too long for him, dating back, if one 
might judge from its general appearance, to a remote 
antiquity. 

Washing the hands and face is usually considered 
proper in commencing the day ; but Dick was above 
such refinement. He had no particular dislike to 
dirt, and did not think it necessary to remove several 
dark streaks on his face and hands. But in spite of 
his dirt and rags there was something about Dick that 
was attractive. It was easy to see that if he had 
been clean and well-dressed he would have been de¬ 
cidedly good-looking. Some of his companions were 
sly, and their faces inspired distrust; but Dick had a 
straightforward manner that made him a favorite. 

Dick’s business hours had commenced. He had no 
office to open. His little blacking-box was ready for 
use, and he looked sharply in the faces of all who 
passed, addressing each with, “ Shine your boots, sir?” 

“ How much ? ” asked a gentleman on his way to 
his office. 

“ Ten cents,” said Dick, dropping his box, and 
sinking upon his knees on the sidewalk, flourishing his 
brush with the air of one skilled in his profession. 

“ Ten cents ! Isn’t that a little steep ? ” 


“ Well, you know ’taint all clear profit,” said Dick, 
who had already set to work. “ There’s the hlachimj 
costs something, and I have to get a new brush pretty 
often.” , 

“ And you have a large rent, too,” said the gentle¬ 
man, quizzically, with a glance at a large hole in 
Dick’s coat. 

“ Yes, sir,” .said Dick, always ready for a joke; “ I 
have to pay such a big rent for my manshun up on 
Fifth Avenue that I can’t afford to take less than ten 
cents a shine. I’ll give you a bully shine, sir.” 

“ Be quick about it then, for I am in a hurry. So 
your house is on Fifth Avenue, is it?” 

“ It isn’t anywhere else,” said Dick, and Dick spoke 
the truth there. 

“ What tailor do you patronize ?” asked the gentle¬ 
man, surveying Dick’s attire. 

“ Would you like to go to the same one ? ” asked 
Dick, shrewdly. 

“ Well, no; it strikes me that he didn’t give you a 
very good fit.” 

“ This coat once belonged to General Washington,” 
said Dick, comically. “ He wore it all through the 
Revolution, and it got tore some, ’cause he fit sq 
hard. When he died he told his widder to give it to 
some smart young fellow that hadn’t got none of his 
own : so she gave it to me. But if you’d like it, .sir, 
to remember General Washington by. I’ll let you have 
it reasonable.” 

“ Thank you, but I wouldn’t like to deprive you of 
it. And did your pants come from General Wash¬ 
ington, too ? ” 

“ No, they was a gift from Lewis Napoleon. Lewis 
had outgrown ’em and .sent ’em to me; he’s bigger 
than me, and that’s why they don’t fit. 

“ It seems you have distinguished friends. Now^ 
my lad, I suppose you would like your money.” 

“ I shouldn’t have any objection,” said Dick. 

And now, having fairly introduced Ragged Dick to 
my young readers, I must refer them to the next 
chapter for his further adventures. 




EDWARD y. ELLliS. 

WKITEK OF POPULAR ROOKS FOR BOYS. 

WARD S. ELLIS is one of the most successful of the large group of 
men and women who have made it their principal business to })rovide 
delightful books for our young people, 

Mr. Ellis is a native of northern Ohio, born in 1840, hut has 
lived most of his life in New Jersey. At the age of seventeen, he 
began his successful career as a teacher and was attached for some 
years to the State Normal School of New Jersey, and was Trustee and Superintend¬ 
ent of the schools in the city of Trenton. He received the degree of A. M. from 
Princeton University on account of the high character of his historical text-books; 
but he is most widely known as a writer of books for boys. Of these, he has 
written about thirty and continues to issue two new ones each year, all of which are 
republished in London. His contributions to children’s papers are so highly 
esteemed that the “ Little Folks’ Magazine,” of London, pays him double the rates 
given to any other contributor. JVIr, Ellis’s School Histories have been widely used 
as text-books and he has also written two books on Arithmetic. He is now j)repar- 
ing “ The Standard History of the United States.” 

Resides those already mentioned, the titles of which would make too long a list 
to be inserted here, he has written a great many miscellaneous books. 

^ Mr. Ellis abounds in good nature and is a delightful companion, and finds in 
his home at Englewood, New Jersey, all that is necessary to the enjoyment of life. 



THE SIGNAL FIRE* 


(from “ STORM MOUNTAIN.”) 


h\LBOT FROST paused on the crest of 
Storm Mountain and looked across the 
lonely Oakland Valley spread out before 

him. 

He had traveled a clean hundred miles through the 
forest, swimming rapid streams, dodging Indians and 
Tories, and ever on the alert for his enemies, who 
were equally vigilant in their search for him. 


He eluded them all, however, for Frost, grim and 
grizzled, was a veteran backwoodsman who had been 
a border .scout for a score of years or more, and he 
knew all the tricks of the cunning Iroquois, whose 
ambition wa.s to destroy every white person that could 
be reached with rifle, knife, or tomahawk. 

Frost had been engaged on many duties for the 
leading American officers, but he was sure that to-day 



* Copyright, Porter & Coatee. 

536 





















EDWARD S. ELLIS. 


537 


was the most important of all; for be it known that 
he carried, hidden in the heel of his shoe, a message 
in cipher from (Jeneral George Washington himself. 

Frost had been promised one hundred dollars in 
gold by the immortal leader of the American armies, 
ii he would place the piece of cipher writing in the 
hands of Colonel Aick Hawley, before the evening of 
the tenth day of August, 1777. 

To-day was the tenth, the afternoon was only half 
gone, and Fort Defiance, with its small garrison under 
the command of Hawley, was only a mile distant in 
Oakland Valley. The vale spread away for many 
leagues to the right and left, and was a couple of miles 
wide at the point where the small border settlement 
was planted, with its stockade fort and its dozen 
families clustered near. 

“ Thar's a good three hours of sunlight left,” mat¬ 
tered the veteran, squinting one eye toward the sultry 
August .sky, “ and I orter tramp to the fort and back 
agin in half that time. I ll be thar ])urty quick, if 
none of the varmints trip me up, but afore leavin' this 
crest. I’d like to cotch the signal fire of young Hoslyn 
from over vender.” 

General Washington considered the me!<.sage to 
Colonel Hawley so important that he had sent it in 
duplicate; that is to say, two mes.«engers concealed 
the cipher about their persons and set out by widely 
different routes to Fort Defiance, in Oakland Valley. 

Since the distance was about the same, and it was 
not expected that there would be much variation in 
speed, it was believeil that, barring accidents, the two 
would arrive in .sieht of their destination within a 
short time of each other 

The other me.ssenger was Klmer Hoslyn. a youth 
of seventeen, a native of Oaklanil. absent with his 
father in the Continental Army, those two being the 
only members of their family who esca[ied an Indian 
massacre that had l)nrst upon the lovely .settlement 
some jnonths before. 

It was agreed that whoever first reached the moun¬ 
tain crest should signal to the other by means of a 
small fire—large enough merely to send uji a slight 
vapor that would show again.st the blue sky beyond. 

The keen eyes of Talbot Frost roved along the 
rugged mountain-ridge a couple of miles distant, in 
search of the tell-tale .signal. 'riiey followed the 
craggy crest a long distance to the north and south of 


the point where Koslyn had promised to appear, but 
the clear summer air was unsustained by the least 
semblance of smoke or vapor. The day itself was of 
unusual brilliancy, not the least speck of a cloud be¬ 
ing visible in the tinted sky. 

“ That Elmer Koslyn is a powerful pert young chap,” 
said the border scout to himself. “ I don’t think I 
ever seed his ekal, and he can fight in battles jes’ like 
his father. Captain Mart, that I’ve heerd Gineral 
Washington say was one of the best officers he’s got; 
but thar’s no sense in his puttin’ himself agin an old 
campaignor like me. I don’t s’pose he’s within 
twenty mile of Oakland yit, and he won’t have a 
chance to kindle that ere signal fire afore to-morrer. 
So I'll start mine, and in case he should accidentally 
reach the mountain-top over yender afore sundown, 
why he’ll see what a foolish younker he was to butt 
agin me. ” 

'J'all)ot Frost knew that de.s|)ite the perils through 
which he had forced his way to this spot, the greatest 
danger, in all probability, lay in the brief space separ¬ 
ating him from Fort Defiance in the middle of the 
valley. 

It was necessar}’, therefore, to use great care lest 
the signal fire should attract the attention of un¬ 
friendly eyes. 

I'll start a small one,” he .said, beginning to 
gather some dry twigs, ‘‘just enough for Elmer to 
ob.sarve by .sarchin’—by the great Gineral Wa.sh- 
ington ! ” 

To explain this exclamation of the old scout, I must 
tell you that before applying the flint and tinder to 
the crunqded leaves, Talbot Frost glanced across the 
opposite mountain-crest, two miles away. 

As he did so he detected a fine, wavy column of 
.smoke climbing from the rocks and trees. It was so 
faint that it was not likely to attract notice, unless a 
.suspicious ('ye happened to look toward that part of 
the sky. 

“ By gracious ! It’s him ! ” he exclaimed, closing 
his mouth and resuming command of himself. “That 
ere young Hoslyn is pc'arter than I thought; if he 
keeps on at this rate by the time he reaches my years 
he’ll be the ekal of me— almoRt. Wall, I’ll have to 
answer him; when we meet I’ll explanify that 
I give him up, and didn’t think it was wuth while to 
start a blaze.” 






SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT. 


FAVORITE WRITER FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. 


E of the earliest papers devoted especially to young children was 
“The Little Pilgrim,” edited for a number of years under the name 
of “Grace Greenwood,” by Mrs. Lippincott. It had a very wide 
po])ularity, and its little stories, poems, and page of j)uzzles brought 
pleasure into very many home circles. Mrs. Lippincott is the 
daughter of Doctor Thaddeus Clarke. She was born in Pompey, 
New York, in September, 1823, and lived during most of her childhood in 
Rochester. In 1842 she removed with her father to New Brighton, Pennsylvania, 
and in 1853 she was married to Leander K. Lippincott, of Philadelphia. She had 
early begun to write verses, and, in 1844, contributed some prose articles to “The 
New York Mirror,” adopting the name “Grace Greenwood,” which she has since 
made famous. Besides her work upon “The Little Pilgrim,” she has contributed 
for many years to “The Hearth and Home,” “The Atlantic INIonthly,” “Harper’s 
Magazine,” “The New York Independent,” “Times,” and “Tribune,” to several 
California journals, and to at least two English periodicals. She was one of the 
first women to become a newspaper correspondent, and her letters from Washington 
inaugurated a new feature in journalism. She has published a number of books: 
“Greenwood Leaves;” “History of JMy Pets;” “Poems;” “Recollections of My 
C'hildhood;” “Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe;” “Merrie England;” 
“Stories from Many Lands;” “Victoria, Queen of England,” and others. 

Mrs. Lippincott has lived abroad a great deal, and has been made welcome in 
the best literary circles in England and on the continent. During the war she 
devoted herself to the cause of the soldiers, read and lectured to them in camps 
and hospitals, and won the appreciation of President Lincoln, who used to speak 
of her as “Grace Greenwood, the Patriot.” Although devoted to her home in 
Washington, she has spent much time in New York City, and has lived a life 
whose activity and service to the public are almost unequalled among literary 
women. 




THE BABY IN THE BATH-THB.* 
(from “ RECORDS OF FIVE YEARS,” 1867 .) 


NNIE! Sophie! come up quick, and see 
baby in her bath-tub ! ” cries a charming 
little maiden, running down the wide stair¬ 


way of an old country bouse, and half-way up the 
long ball, all in a fluttering cloud of pink lawn, her 
soft dimpled cheeks tinged with the sauie lovely morn- 


* Copyright, Houghton, Mithin Jc Co. 

533 
























SARAH JAXE LIPPIXCOTT. 


539 


ing hue. In an instant there is a stir and a gush of 
light laughter in the drawing-room, and presently, 
with a movement a little more majestic and elder-sis¬ 
terly, Annie and Sopliie float noiselessly*through the 
hall and up the soft-carpeted ascent, as though borne 
on their respective clouds of blue and white drajiery, 
and take their way to the nursery, where a novel en¬ 
tertainment awaits them. It is the first morning of 
the eldest married sister’s first visit home, with her 
first baby; and the first baby, having slept late after 
its journey, is about to take its first bath in the old i 
house. 

“ Well, I declare, if here isn’t mother, forgetting 
her dairy, and Cousin Nellie, too, who must have left 
poor Ned all to himself in the garden, lonely and dis¬ 
consolate, and I am torn from my books, and Sophie 
from her flowers, and all for the sake of seeing a nine- 
month-old baby kicking about in a bath-tub! What 
simplet(,)ns we are ! ” 

Thus Miss Annie, the proude htj/de of the family; 
handsome, haughty, with perilous proclivities toward | 
grand .socialistic theories, tran.scendentalism, and gen- ] 
eral strong-mindedness ; pledged by many a saucy vow j 
to a life of single dignity and freedom, given to | 
studies artistic, aesthetic, philosophic and ethical; a 
student of Plato, an absorber of Emerson, an e.xalter 
of her sex, a contemner of its natural enemies. 

“Simpletons, are we?” cries jiretty Elinor Lee, 
aunt of the baby on the other side, and “ Comsin 
Nellie” by love’s courtesy, now kneeling close by the 
bath-tub, and receiving on her sunny braids a liberal 
baptism from the jmre, plashing hands of babyhood, 
—“ simpletons, indeed ! Did I not once .see thee. () 

1’alias-Athene, standing rapt before a copy of the 
^Vouching Venus?’and this is a sight a thousand 
times more beautiful ; for here we have color, action, 
radiant life, and such grace as the divinest sculptors 
of Greece were never able to entrance in marble. Just 
look at these white, dimpled shoulders, every dimple 
holding a tiny, sparkling drop,—these rosy, pla.shing 
feet and hands,—this laughing, roguish face,—these 
eyes, bright and blue and deep as lakes of fairy-land, 
—these ears, like dainty sea-shells,—the.so locks of 
gold, dripping diamonds,—and tell me what cherub 
of Titian, what Cupid of Greuze, was ever half so 
lovely. I say, too, that Raphael himself would have 
jumped at the chance of painting Louise, as she sits 


there, towel in hand, in all the serene pride and chas¬ 
tened dignity of young maternity,—of painting her as 
Madonna." 

“ Why, Cousin Nellie is getting poetical for once, 
over a baby in a bath-tub ! ” 

“ Well. Sophie, isn’t it a subject to inspire real 
poets, to call out and yet humble the genius of 
painters and sculptors? Isn’t it an object for the 
reverence of • a glorious human creature,’—such a 
pure anti perfect form of jdiysical life, such a starry 
little soul, fresh from the hands of God? If your 
Plato teaches otherwise. Cousin Annie, I’m glad I’ve 
no acquaintance with that di.stinguished heathen gen¬ 
tleman ; if your Carlyle, with his ‘ soul above buttons’ 
and babies, would growl, and your Emerson smile icily 
at the sight, away with them 1 ” 

“ Why, Nellie, you goose, Carlyle is * a man and a 
brother,’ in spite of his ‘ Latter-day Pamphlets,’ and 
no ogre. I believe he is very well disposed toward 
babies in general; while Emerson is as tender as he is 
great. Have you forgotten his ‘ Threnody,’ in which 
the sub of a mortal’s sorrow rises and swells into an 
immortal's pean ? I see that baby is very lovely ; I 
think that Louise may well be proud of her. It’s a pity 
that she must grow up into conventionalities and all 
that,—perhaps become some man’s plaything, or 
slave.” 

“ 0 don't, sister !—• suflicient for the day is the 
worriment thereof’ But I think you and Nellie are 
mistaken about the pride. I am conscious of no such 
feeling in regard to my little Florence, but only of 
joy, gratitude, infinite tenderness, and solicitude.” 

Thus the young mother,—for the first time speak¬ 
ing, but not turning her eyes from the bath-tub. 

“ Ah, coz, it won’t go ! Voung mothers are the 
proude.st of living creatures. The sweetest and .saint- 
liest among you have a sort of subdued exultation, a 
meek assumption, an adorable insolence, toward the 
whole unmarried and childless world. I have never 
.seen anything like it elsewhere. ” 

“/ have, in a bantam Hiddy, parading her first 
brood in the hen-yard, or a youthful duck, leading her 
first little downy flock to the water.” 

“ Ila, blasphemer! are you there?” cries Miss 
Nellie, with a bright smile, and a brighter blush. 
Blasphemer’s other name is a tolerably good one,— 
Edward Norton,—though he is oftenest called “ Our 








540 


SARAH .TANK LIl*]>INCOTT. 


>ied.” He is the sole male representative of a wealthy 
old New England family,—the pride and darling of 
four pretty sisters, “ the only son of his mother, and 
she a widow,” who adores him,—a likely youth, just 
twenty-one,” handsome, brilliant, and standing si.x feet 
high in his stockings. Vet, in spite of all these un¬ 
favorable circumstances, he is a very good sort of a 
fellow’. He is just home from the model college of 
the (’ommonwealth, where he learned to smoke, and, 
I blush to .sav, has a cigar in hand at this moment, 
just as he has been summoned from the garden by 
his pet .4.ster, Kate, half-wild with delight and e.vcite- 
ment. With him comes a brother, according to the 
law, and after the spirit.—a young, slender, fair-haired 
man, but with an indescribable something of paternal 
importance about him. He is the other proprietor 
of baby, and steps forward with a laugh and a “ Ileh. 
my little water-nymph, my Iris ! ” and by the bath-tub 
kneeling, catches a moist kiss from smiling baby lips, 
and a sudden wilting shower on .shirt-front and collar, 
from moi.ster baby hands. 

Y^oung collegian pauses on the threshold, essaying 
to look lofty and .sarcastic, for a moment. Then his 
eye rests on Nellie Lee's blushing face, on the red, 
smiling lips, the braids of gold, sprinkled w’ith .shining 
drops,—meets those sweet, .shy eyes, and a sudden, 
mysterious feeling, soft and vague and tender, floods 
his gay young heart. He looks at baby again. “ 'Tis 
a pretty sight, upon my word! Let me throw away 
my cigar before I come nearer; it is incense too pro¬ 


fane for such pure rites. Now give me a peep at 
Dian-the less! How the little witch revels in the 
water! A small Tn dine. Jolly, isn’t it, baby ? Why, 
Louise, 1 did not know that Floy was so lovely, such 
a perfect little creature. How fair she is? Why, 
her flesh, where it is not rosy, is of the pure, trans¬ 
lucent whiteness of a water-lily.” 

No resjtonse to this tribute, for baby has been in 
the water more than long enough, and must be taken 
out, willy, nilly. Decidedly nilly it proves; baby 
proceeds to demonstrate that she is not altogether 
cherubic, by kicking and screaming lustily, and strik¬ 
ing out frantically with her little, dripping hands. 
But Madonna wrajts her in soft linen, rolls her and 
pats her, till she grows good and merry again, and 
laughs through her pretty tears. 

But the brief storm has been enough to clear the 
nursery of all .save grandmamma and Auntie Kate, 
who draw nearer to witne.ss the process of drying and 
dressing. Tenderly the mother rubs the dainty, soft 
skin, till every dimple gives uj) its last hidden drop¬ 
let ; then, with many a ki.s.s. and smile, and coo, she 
robes the little form in fairy-like garmetits of cambric, 
lace, flannel, soft as a moth’s wing, and delicate em¬ 
broidery. The small, restle.'^s feet are caught, and 
enca.sed in comical little hose, and shod with Titania’s 
own slippers. Then the light golden locks are brushed 
and twined into tendril-like curls, and lo ! the beauti¬ 
ful labor of love is finished. Baby is bathed and 
dressed for the day. 




. 








HUM.... 

= ! 

— 

= s 


! = 

2 'AC ik: 'Ac '4c ac s 

3.-'l .'IS .'P. .'P. .'P. .'p. - 


... 




MARTHA FINJ.EY. 

Tin: (IIKLS’ FlUEM). 

[ARTH A 1' IX lvh\ , autlior of the “ERie lh)oks,” etc., amounting in all 
to about one hundred volumes, was horn in Chillicothe, Ohio, April 
2(), 1(S28, in the house of her graiidfathei’. Major Samuel Finley, 
of till* Virginia Cavalry, in the War of the Revolution, and a per¬ 
sonal friend of Washington, who, while President, a|)j)ointed him 
“Collector of Public Monies” for the Northwestern Territory of 
which Ohio was then a |>art. In the war of 1812—14 ^lajor Finlev marched to 
Detroit to the assistance of General Hull, at the head of a regiment of Ohio 
volunteers in which his eldest sou, James Rrown Finley, then a lad of eighteen, was 
a lieutenant. On Hull’s disgi-aceful surrender those troo])s were paroled and 
returned to their homes in Ohio. James Finley afterwards became a jiliysician and 
married his mother’s niece. Maria Theresa Brown. Martha was their saxth child. 
In the spring of 1886 I)r. Finley left Ohio for South Bend, Indiana, where he 
resided until his death in 1851. 

Something more than a year later Martha joined a widowed sister in XTw A^ork 
city and resided there with her for about eighteen months. It was then and there 
she began her literary career by writing a newspaper story and a little Sunday- 
.school bi)ok. But she was broken down in liealth and half blind from astigmatism ; 
so bad a case that the oculist who years afterward measured her eyes for gla^sses, told 
her she would have been excusable had she said she could not do anything at all. 
But she loved books and would manage to read and write in spite of the difficulty 
of so doing; and a great difficulty it was, for in the midst of a long sentence the 
letters would seem to be thrown into confusion, and it was necessary to look away 
from the book or close her eyes for an instant before they would resume their proper 
positions. 

But orphaned and dependent upon her own exertions, she struggled on, teach¬ 
ing and writing, living sometimes in Philadelphia with a stejnnother who was kind 
enough to give her a home, sometimes in Plnienixville, Pa., where she taught a 
little select school. It was there she began the Elsie Series which have proved her 
most successful venture in literature. The twenty-second volume, jmblished in 
1897, is entitled Elsie at Home. The author has again and again ])roposed to end 
the series, thinking it long enough, but public and publishers have insisted upon 
another and yet another volume. The books have sold so well that .they have made 

.541 


























542 


MARTHA FINLEY. 


lier a lovely home in Elktoii, Mary land, whither she removed in 1876 and still 
resides, and to yield her a comfortable income. 

But her works are not all juveniles. “ Wanted a Pedigree,” and most of the 
other works in the Finley Series are for adults, and though not so very popular as 
the Elsie Books, still have steady sales though nearly all have been on the market 
for more than twenty years. 


ELSIES DISAPPOINTMENT* 


(from “ ELSIE DINSMORE.”) 



HE school-room at Roselands was a very 
pleasant aj)artment. Within sat Misslhiy 
with her pujiils, six in number. 

“ Young ladies and gentlemen,” said she. looking at 
lier watch, “ I shall leave you to your studies for an 
hour ; at the end of which time I shall return to hear 
your recitations, when those who have attended 
jiroperly to their duties will be permitted to ride out 
with me to visit the fair.” 

“ Oh ! that will be jolly ! ” exclaimed Arthur, a 
bright-eyed, mischief-loving boy of ten. 

‘‘Hush!” said Miss Day sternly; ‘‘let me hear 
no more such exclamations; and remember that you 
will not go unless your lessons are thoroughly learned. 
Louise and Lora,” addressing two young girls of the 
respective ages of twelve and fourteen, “ that French 
exercise must be ]ierfect, and your English lessons as 
well. Elsie,” to a little girl of eight, sitting alone at 
a desk near one of the windows, and bending over a 
slate with an appearance of great industry, “ every 
figure of that example must be correct, your geography 
lesson recited perfectly, and a page in your copy-book 
written without a lilot.” 

“ Ye.s, ma’am,” said the child meekl}’. raising a pair 
of large .sitft eyes of the darkest hazel for an instant 
to her teacher’s face, and then dropping them again 
upon her slate. 

“ And see that none of you leave the room until I 
return,” continued the governess. ‘‘Walter, if you 
miss one word of that spelling, you will have to stay 
at home and learn it over.” ' 

“ Unless mamma interferes, as she will be pretty 
sure to do,” muttered Arthur, as the door closed on j 
Miss Day, and her retreating footsteps were heard ! 
passing down the hall. 

For about ten minutes after her departure, all was 


(juiet in the .school-room, each .seemingly completely 
absorbed in study. Hut at the end of that time 
Arthur sprang uj), and, flinging his book across the 
room, exclaimed, “ There ! 1 know my lesson ; and if 
1 didn't, 1 .shouldn't study another bit for old Day, or 
Night either.” 

“ Do be quiet. Arthur,” said his sister lamlse; “ I 
can't study in such a racket.” 

Arthur stole on tiptoe across the room, and com¬ 
ing up behind Elsie, tickled the back of her neck 
with a feather. 

She .started, saying in a pleading tone, “Please, 
Arthur, don't.” 

‘‘ It jdeases me to do,” he said, rejieating the ex¬ 
periment. 

El.-^ie changed her position, saying in the same 
gentle, persuasive tone, “ O Arthur! please let me 
alone, or I never shall be able to do this example.” 

“ What ! all this time on one example ! you ought 
to be a.shamed. Why, I could have done it half a 
dozen times over.” 

‘‘ I have been over and over it,” replied the little 
girl in a tone of de.spondency, ‘‘ and still there are two 
figures that will not come right.” 

‘‘ How do you know they are not right, little puss ? ” 
shaking her curls as he spoke. 

“ Oh ! })lea.se, Arthur, don’t pull my hair. I have 
the answer—that’s the way I know.” 

Well, then, why don't you just set the figures 
down. I would.” 

“ Oh ! no. indeed : that would not be honest.” 

‘‘ Pooh ! non.eense ! nobody would be the wiser, nor 
the jioorer.’' 

“ No. but it would be ju.st like telling a lie. But I 
can never get it right while you are bothering me so,” 
.«aid Elsie, laying her slate aside in de.sj)air. Then, 


* Copyright, 18‘J3, Doiid, Me;ul .t Co. 










MARTHA FINLEY. 


543 


taking out her geography, she began studying most 
diligently. But Arthur continued his persecutions— 
tickling her, pulling her hair, twitching the book out 
of her hand, and talking almost incessantly, making 
remarks, and asking ((uestions ; till at last Elsie said, 
as if just ready to cry, " Indeed. Arthur, if you don't 
let me alone, I shall never be able to get my lessons.’’ 

" Go away, then ; take your book out on the ve¬ 
randa, and learn your lessons there.” .said Louise. 
“ I'll call you when MLs Day comes.” 

“ Oh ! no, Loui.se, I cannot do that, becau.'ie it 
would be disobedience,” replied Elsie, taking out her 
writing materials. 

Arthur stood over her criticising every letter she 
made, and finally jogged her elbow in such a way as 
to cause her to drop all the ink in her pen upon the 
paper, making quite a large blot. 

“Oh!” cried the little girl, bursting into tears, 
“ now I shall lo.se my ride, for 3Ii.s.s Day will not let 
me go; and T was so anxious to see all those beauti¬ 
ful flowers.” 

Arthur, who was really not very vicious, felt some 
compunction when he saw the mischief he had done. 
“ Never mind, Elsie,” said he, “ I can fix it yet. Just 
let me tear out this page, and you can begin again on 
the next, and I’ll not bother you. I’ll make these 
two figures come right, too,” he added, taking up her 
slate. 

“ Thank you, Arthur,” said the little girl, .smiling 
through her tears; “ you are very kind, but it would 
not be honest to do either, and T had rather stay at 
home than be deceitful.” . 

“ 4'ery well, miss,” .said he, to.s.sing his head, and 
walking away, “ .since you won’t let me help you. it 
is all your own fault if you have to .stay at home.” 

El.sie finished her jiage, and, excepting the unfortu¬ 
nate blot, it all looked very neat indeed, showing plainly 
that it had been written with great care. She then 
took up her slate and j)atiently went over and over 
every figure of the troublesome example, trying to 
discover where her mistake had been. Hut much 
time had been lo.st through Arthur's teasing, and her 
mind was so disturbed by the accident to her writing 
that .she tried in vain to fix it upon the busine.ss in 
hand ; and before the two troublesome figures had been 
made right, the hour was past and Mis.s Day returned. 

“ Oh ! ” thought Elsie, “ if she will only hear the 


others first ; ” but it was a vain hope. Miss Day had 
no sooner seated herself at her desk than she called, 
“ Elsie, come here and say that lesson ; and bring 
your copy-book and slate, that 1 may examine your 
work.” 

Elsie tremblingly obeyed. 

The lesson, though a difficult one, was very tolera¬ 
bly recited ; for Elsie, knowing Arthur’s propensity 
for teasing, had studied it in her own room before 
chool hours. But Miss Day handed back the books 
with a frown, saying, “ I told you the recitation must 
be perfect, and it was not. There are two incorrect 
figures in this example,” said she, laying down the 
slate, after glancing over its contents. Then taking 
up the copy-book, .she exclaimed, “ Careless, diso¬ 
bedient child 1 did I not caution you to he careful not 
to blot your book ? There will be no ride for you this 
morning. You have failed in everything. Go to your 
seat. Make that example right, and do the next ; 
learn your geography lesson over, and write another 
page in your copy-book ; and mind, if there is a blot 
on it, you will get no dinner.” 

Weeping and sobbing, Elsie took up her books and 
obeyed. 

During this scene Arthur stood at his desk pretend¬ 
ing to study, but glancing every now and then at 
Elsie, with a con.science evidently ill at ease. She 
cast an imploring glance at him, as she returned to 
her seat; but he turned away his head, muttering, 
“ It’s all her own fault, for she wouldn't let me help 
her.” 

As he looked up again, he caught his sister Lora’s 
eyes fixed on him with an expression of scorn and 
contempt. He colored violently, and dropped his 
upon his book. 

“ Miss Day,” .said Lora, indignantly, “ I see Arthur 
does not mean to speak, and as I cannot bear to see 
.such injustice, I must tell you that it is all his fault 
that Elsie has fiiiled in her lessons ; for she tried her 
very best, but he teased her inces.santly, and also 
jogged her elbow and made her spill tlie ink on her 
book ; and to her credit she was too honorable to tear 
out the leaf from her copy-hook, or to let him make 
her example right; both which he very generously 
proposed doing after cau.sing all the mischief.” 

“ Is this so, Arthur ? ” asked Miss Day, angrily. 

The boy hung his head, but made no reply. 






544 


MARTHA FINLEY. 


“ Very well, then,” said Miss Day, “ you too uiiist 
stay at home.” 

“Surely,” said Lora, in surprise, “you will not 
keep Klsie, sitice I have shown you that she was not 
to blame.” 

“ .^liss Lora,” replied her teacher, haughtily, “I 
wish yttu to understand that I am not to be dictated 
to by my pupils.” 

Lora bit her lip, but said nothing, and Miss Day 
went on hearing the lessons without further remark. 

In the meantime the little Elsie sat at her desk, 
striving to cun(|uer the feelings of anger and indigna¬ 
tion that were swelling in her breast; for Elsie, 
though she possessed much of “ the ornament of a 
meek and (piiet spirit,” was not yet perfect, and often 
had a fierce contest with her naturally quick temper. 
Yet it was seldom, very seldom that word or tone or 
look betrayed the existence of such feelings; and it 
was a common remark in the family that Elsie had 
no sjurit. 

The recitations were scarcely finished when the 
door oj)ened and a lady entered dressed for a ride. 

“ Not through yet. Miss Day ?” she asked. 

“ Yes, madam, we are just done,” replied the 
teacher, closing the French grammar and handing it 
to Louise. 

“ Well, I hope your j)upils have all done their duty 
this morning, and are ready to accompany us to the 
fair,” said Mrs. Dinsmore. “ But what is the matter 
with Elsie ? ” 

“ She has failed in all her exercises, and therefore 
has been told that she must remain at home,” replied 
Miss Day with heightened color and in a tone of 


anger; “ and as Miss Lora tells me that Master 
Arthur was partly the cause, I have forbidden him 
also to accompany us.” 

“ Excuse me. Miss Day, for correcting you,” said 
Lora, a little indignantly; “ but I did not say partly, 
for 1 am sure it was entirely his fault.” 

“ Hush, hush, Lora,” said her mother, a little im¬ 
patiently ; “ how can you be sure of any such thing; 
Miss Day, 1 must beg of you to excuse Arthur this 
once, for I have quite set my heart on taking him 
along. lie is fond of mischief, I know, but he is 
only a child, and you must not be too hard upon 
him.” 

“ Very well, madam,” rej)lied the governess stiffly, 
you have of course the best right to control your 
own children.” 

Mrs. Dinsmore turned to leave the room. 

“ Mamma,” asked Lora, “is not Elsie to be allowed 
to go too ? ” 

“ Elsie is not my child, and 1 have nothing to say 
about it. Miss Day, who knows all the circum¬ 
stances, is much better able than I to judge whether 
or no she is deserving of punishment,” replied Mrs. 
Dinsmore, sailing out of the room. 

“ You will let her go. Miss Day ?” said Lora, in¬ 
quiringly. 

“ Miss Lora,” replied Miss Day, angrily, “ I have 
already told you I was not to be dictated to. I have 
said Elsie must remain at home, and I shall not break 
my word.” 

“ Such injustice! ” muttered Lora, turning away. 

Miss Day hastily quitted the room, followed by 
liouise and Lora, and Elsie was left alone. 





Miscellaneous Masterpieces, 


FROM VARIOUS AMERICAN 

CHOSEN WITH A VIEW TO THEIR 


AND ANONYMOLS AUTHORS, 

GENERAL POPULARITY OR ADAPTATION 


KOR RBAOIXCY A XL) RKCUrATlOX 


HOME, SWEET HOME. 

John Howaud Payne, the author of the following 
beautiful and perhaps most widely known song in 
the world, was born in New York, on the ninth of 
June, 1792. His remarkable career as an actor and 
dramatist belongs to the history of the stage. As a 
poet he will be known only by a single song. He 
died at Tunis, in 1852, where he was for some time 
Consul for the United States. 

* jlD pleasure.s and palaces though we may 

I roam, 

j Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like 
home! 

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, 
Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with 
elsewhere. 

Home! home, sweet home! 

There’s no place like home ! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain. 

Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ; 

’file birds singing gayly that come at my call: 

Hive me these, and the peace of mind, dearer than 
all. 

Home! .sweet, sweet home ! 

There’s no place like home. 

35 51 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 

Fkancis Scott Key, the author of the following 
patriotic poem, was born in Frederick County, Maryr 
land, August 1, 1779. He was a very able and eloquent 
lawyer, and one of the most respectable gentlemen 
whose lives have ever adorned American society. He 
was a man of much literary cultivation and taste, and 
his religious poems are not without merit. lie died very 
suddenly at Baltimore on January 11, 1843. In 1814, 
when the Britisli fleet was at tlie mouth of tlie Po¬ 
tomac River, and intended to attack Baltimore, Mr. 
Key and Mr. Skinner were sent in a vessel with a 
flag of truce to obtain the release of some prisoners 
the English had taken in their expedition against 
Washington. Thej’ did not succeed, and were told 
that they would be detained till after the attack had 
been made on Baltimore. Accordingly, they went 
in their own vessel, strongly guarded, with the Brit¬ 
ish fleet, and when they came within sight of Fort 
McHenry, a short distance below the city, they could 
see the American flag flying on the ramparts. As 
the day closed in, the bombardment of the fort com¬ 
menced, and .Mr. Key and l\lr. Skinner remained on 
deck all night, watching with deep anxiety every 
shell that was fired. Wiiile the bombardment con¬ 
tinued, it was sufficient proof that the fort had not 
surrendered. It suddenly ceased some time before 
day; but as they had no communication with any of 
the enemy’s ships, they did not know whether* the 
fort had surrendered and their homes and friends 
were in danger, or the attack upon it had been aban¬ 
doned. They paced the deck the rest of the night in 





















546 


MISCELLANEOUS .MASTER 1‘IECES. 


painful suspense, •watching with intense anxiety for 
the return of day. At length the light came, and 
they saw that “our flag was still there,” and soon 
they were informed tliat tlie attack had failed. In 
the fervor of the moment, Mr. Key took an old letter 
from his pocket, and on its back wrote the most of 
tins celebrated song, flnishing it as soon as he reached 
Baltimore. He showed it to his friend .Judge Nichol¬ 
son, who was so pleased with it that he placed it at 
once in the hands of the printer, and in an hour after 
it was all over the city, and hailed with enthusiasm, 
and took its place at once as a national song. Thus, 
this patriotic, impassioned ode became forever asso¬ 
ciated with the “Stars and Stripes.” 


! SAY. can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
What so proudly we hail’d at the twilight’s 
last gleaming; 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, 
through the perilous fight, 

O'er the ramparts we watch’d, were so gallantly 
streaming ? 

And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air. 
Gave proof thro’ the night that our flag was still 
there; 

O! say, does that star-spatigled banner yet wave 
O’er tlie land of the free and the home of the brave? 

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the 
deep 

Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence 
reposes. 

What is that which the breeze o'er the towering 
steep 

As it fitfully blows, half-conceals, half discloses? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam ; 
Its full glory reflected now shines on the stream : 

’Tis the star-spangled banner, O ! long may it wave 
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

And where is the band who so vauntingly swore, 

Mid the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion, 

A home and a country they’d leave us no more ? 

* Their blood hath wash’d out their foul footsteps’ 
pollution ; 

No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave, 
.\nd file star-spangled banner in triunijih doth wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

O! thus be it ever, when freeman shall stand 

Between our loved home and the war's desolation; 
Bless’d with victory and peace, may the heaven- 
rescued land 

Braise the power that hath made and j)re.served us 
a nation ! 

Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just. 

And this be our motto, “ In God is our trust,” 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
(for the land of the free and the home of the brave. 



THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

BY .JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 

Born in New York, August 17, 1795 ; died Septen 
her 21, 182U. 



HEN Freedom from her mountain height, 
Unl’urled her standard to the air, 

She tore the azure robe ol' night. 

And set the stars of glory there! 

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skie.s, 

And striped its pure celestial white 
With .streakings of the morning light; 

Then, from his mansion in the sun, 

She (“dlled her eagle-hearer down. 

And gave into his mighty hand 
'fhe .symbol of her chosen land ! 


Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 

Who rear’st aloft thy regal form. 

To hear the tempest trumping loud, 

And see the lightning lances driven. 

When strive the warriors of the .st<um. 
.\nd rolls the thunder-drum of heaven— 
Child of the sun ! to thee ’tis given 
To guard the banner of the free, 

To hover in the sulphur smoke. 

To ward .away the battle-stroke, 

And bid its blendings .shine afar. 

Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 

'i'he harbingers of victory ! 


Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly. 

The sign of hope and triumjih high ! 

When speaks the signal-trumpet tone. 

And the long line comes gleaming on. 

Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet. 

Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. 

Each soldier’s e 3 'e shall brightly turn 
To where th^' sky-born glories burn. 

And, as his .springing .steps advance. 

Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 


Ajid when the cannon-mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wre.aths the battle shroud. 
And gory .sabres rise and fall 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall. 
Then shall thy meteor glance.s glow. 

And cowering foes shall .shrink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 
That lovely messenger of death. 


Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
'fhy stars shall glitter o’er the brave 
When death, careering on the gale. 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. 
And frighted waves ru.slj wildly back 
Before the broadside’s reeling rack. 











ISIISCELLANEOUS MASTEKPIECES. 


547 


Eacli <lyiii<r wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 

And smile to see thy splendors fly 
In triumph o’er his elosing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's ho{)e and home, 

Ily angel hands to valor given ! 

Thy stars have lit the welUin dome. 

And all thy hues were horn in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet ! 

Where hreathes the foe hut falls before us! 
AVith freedom’s soil beneath our feet. 

And freedom’s banner streaming o’er us! 


The Fifth, who ehaneed to touch the ear, 
Said; “ E’en the blindest man 
Can tell what this resembles most; 

Deny the fact who can. 

This marvel of an elephant, 

Is very like a fan!’’ 

The Sixth no sooner had begun 
About the beast to grope, 

Than, seizing on the swinging tail 
That fell within his scojte, 

“I see, ” (pioth he, “the elephant 
Is very lihe a rope!” 


BLIND MAN AND THE ELEPHANT. 

15V JOHN OOHFRKV SAXE. 

Born in Vermont, June 2, ]81(5; died in Alhanv, 
N. Y., March 31, 1887. 

SjT was six men of Indostan 
H To learning much inclined. 

Who went to see the elephant 
(Though all of them were blind.) 

That each by ob.«ervation 
-Misrht satisfv his mind. 


The First approached the elephant. 
And, happening to fall 
Against his broad and sturdy side. 

At once began to bawl; 

“(Jod ble.ss me! but the elephant 
Is very like a wall! ’’ 

The Second, feeling of the tusk. 

Cried: “Ho! what have we here 
So very round and smooth and sharp? 

To me ’tis mighty clear 
'J'his wonder of an elephant 
Is very like a spear!” 

The Third approached the animal. 
And, happening to take 
The squirming trunk within his hands, 
'I'hus boldly up and spake: 

“ 1 see,” quoth he, “the elephant 
Is very like a snake! ” 


The Fourth reached out his eager hand, 
And felt about the knee. 

“ What most this wondrous beast is like 
Is mighty jdain,” <|UOth he; 

“Tis clear enough the elephant 
Is very like a tiee!” 


And so these men of Indostan 
Disputed loud and long. 

Each in his own o])inion 
Exceeding stiff and strong. 

Though each was partly in the right. 
And all were in the wrong! 


JIOllAI.. 

So, oft in theologic wars 
The disputants, I ween. 
Kail on in utter ignorance 
Of what each other mean. 
And prate about an elephant 
Not one of them has seen! 


HAIL, COU’MBIA! 

BY JOSEPH HOPKINSON. 

Born 1770 ; died 1842. The following interesting 
story is told concerning the writing of this now fa¬ 
mous patriotic song. “It was written in the summer 
of 1798, when war with France w'as thought to be 
inevTfable. Corrgress was then in session in Phila¬ 
delphia, deliberating upon that important subject, 
and acts of hostility had actually taken place. The 
contest between England and France was raging, 
and the people of the United States were divided into 
parties for the one side or the other, some thinking 
that policy and duty required us to espouse the cause 
of republican France, as she w'as called ; while others 
w'ere for connecting ourselves with England, under 
the belief that she was the great conservative power 
of good principles and safe government. The viola¬ 
tion of our riglits by both belligerents was forcing us 
from the just and wise policy of President WASiiTNa- 
TON. which was to do equal justice to both, to take 
part willi neither, but to preserve a strict and honest 
neutrality between them. The prospect of a rup¬ 
ture with France was e.xceedingly offensive to the 
portion of the people who espoused her cause ; and 
the violence of the spirit of i)arty has never risen 
higher, I think not so higli, in our country, as it did 
at that time, upon that question. The theatre vvas 
then open in our city. A young man belonging to it, 
whose talent w'as as a singer, was about to take his 
benefit. I had knovvn him when he was at school. 
On this acquaintance, he called on me one Saturday 















54<S 


MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


afternoon, liis benefit being announced for tlie follow¬ 
ing Monday. Ilis prospects were very dishearten¬ 
ing; but he said that if he could get a patriotic song 
adapted to the tune of the ‘President’s March’, he 
did not doubt of a full house ; that the poets of the 
tlieatrical corps had been trying to accomplish it, but 
had not succeeded. I told him I would try what I 
could do for him. He came the next afternoon, and 
tlie song, such as it was, was ready for him. The 
object of the author was to get up an American ftpirit, 
whicii should be independent of and above the inter¬ 
ests, ])assions, and policy of both belligerents, and 
look and feel exclusively for our own honor and 
rights. No allusion is made to France or England, 
or the quarrel between them, or to the question which 
was most in fault in their treatment of us. Of course 
the song found favor with both parties, for both 
were Americans : at least, neither could disavow the 
sentiments and feelings it inculcated. Such is the 
history of this song, which has endured infinitely be¬ 
yond the expectation of the author, as it is beyond 
any merit it can boast of, except that of being truly 
and exclusively patriotic in its sentiments and spirit. ” 

AIL, Culumbia ! happy land ! 

Hail, ye heroes ! heaven-horn band ! 

Who fought and bled in Freedom’s cau.se, 
Who fought and hied in Freedom’s cause, 
And when the stcu'in of war was gone. 

Enjoj-’d the ]»eace your valor won. 

Let independence be our boast, 

Ever mindful what it cost; 

Ever grateful for the prize; 

Let its altar reach the .skies. 

Firm—united—let us he. 

Rallying round our liberty ; 

As a band of brothers join’d, 

Peace and safety we shall find. 

Immortal patriots ! ri.se once more ; 

Defend your rights, defend your .shore; 

Let no rude foe, with impious hand. 

Let no rude foe with impious hand. 

Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
< )f toil and blood the well-earn’d prize. 

While offering peace sincere and just, 

In Heaven we jtlace a manly trust. 

That truth and justice will prevail, 

.\nd every scheme of bondage fail. 

Firm—united, etc. 

Sound, .sound the trump of Fame ! 

Let WAsuiNiiTON's great name 
Ring through the world with loud apjtlau.'ie. 
Ring through the world with loud ajtplause ; 

Let every chine to Freedom dear 
Li.sten with a joyful ear. 

With ecjual .'<kill and godlike power. 

He governs in the fearful hour 
Of horrid war ; or guides, with ea.^e, 

The happier times of hone.st j)eace. 

Firm—united, etc. 


Hehold the chief who now commands, 

()uce more to serve his country statids,—- 
'file rock on which the storm will beat, 
'I'he I'ock on which the storm will beat; 
But, arm’d in virtue firm and true. 

His ho})es are fix’d on Heaven and you. 
When Hope was .sinking in dismay. 

And glotjins obscured Columbia’s day. 

His steady mind, from changes free, 
Resolved on death or liberty. 

Firm—united, etc. 


BETTY AND THE BEAR. 

HUMOROUS. 

N a pioneer’s cabin out West, so they say, 
A great big black grizzly trotted one day. 
And seated himself on the hearth, and 
began 

To lap the contents of a two-gallon pan 
Of milk and potatoes,—an excellent meal,— 

And then looked about to .see what he could steal. 
'J'he lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep. 

And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep 
Just out in the kitchen, to .see what was there, 

And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear. 

j 8o he screamed in alarm to his slumbering //-o?/.-, 

' “ Thar’s a har in the kitchen as big’s a cow! ” 

“A what?” “Why, a har!” “ Well, murder him, 
then I ” 

“ Yes, Betty, I will, if you’ll first venture in.’’ 

So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized. 

While lier man .shut the door, and against it he 
sipieezed. 

As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blow‘S, 

Now on his forehead, and now on his no.se, 

Her man through the key-hole kept shouting within, 
“ Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agin, 

Now a raj) on the ribs, now a knock on the .snout, 
Now ))oke with the poker, and poke his eyes out.’’ 

, So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty ahnn'. 

At last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone. 

Now when the old man .saw' the bear was no more, 
lie ventured to poke his nose out of the door. 

Ami there was the grizzly stretched on the floor. 
'Phen off to the neighbors he hastened to tell 
All the wonderful things that that morning befell: 
.\nd he published the marvelous story afar. 

How “ me and my Betty jist slaughtered a b.ir ! 

O yes, come and .see, all the neighbors hev sid ir. 
Come see what we did, .mk and Betty, w'e did it." 

Anonymous. 













MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES, 


549 




As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, 
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, 
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew. 

With a sleifih full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. 

And then, in a twinkling, T heard on the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 

As 1 drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas crane with a bound. 
Fie was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot. 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and 
soot; 

A bundle of toys he had flung on his hack, 

And he looked like a peddler just opening his |»ack. 
Ilis eyes, how they twinkled! his dimples, how 
merry! 

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! 


BY CLEMENT C. MOORE. 

Born in New York, July 15, 1779; died in Kliode 
Island, July 10, 1863. 

WAS the night before Christmas, when all 
through the house 

Not a creature was stirring, not even a 
mouse; 

The stockings were hung t)y the chimney with care. 
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. 

The children were nestled all snug in their beds 
While vi.sions of sugar-plums danced through theii- 
heads; 

And mamma in her kerchief, and T in my cap, 

Had settled our brains for a long winter’s nap. 

When out on the lawn there aro.se such a clatter. 


I sprang from the bed to see what 

was the matter. , 

Away to the window I flew like a i 
fla.sh, I 

Tore open the ,'<hntters and threw ^ 

up the sash. | 

The moon on the brea.st of the new- 5 

fallen snow | 

Gave the Imstre of mid-day to ob- p 

jects below; 2 

When what to my wondering eyes | 

should appear i 

But a miniature .sleigh and eight * 

tiny reindeer. 

With a little old driver, .so lively and quick. 

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
iMore rapid than eagles his coursers they came. 

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by 
name: 

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! and 
Vixen ! 

On, Comet! on. Cupid ! on, Donder and Blitzen ! 

To the top of the porch ! to the top of the wall! 

Now da.sh away ! dash away ! dash away all! ” 



































I 


550 


MI S(" KTJ. A N VX )T Tir! M A AT KII1’T FX’I'.S. 



lILs droll little inoiitli was drawn np 
like a bow, 

And the beard of liis elan was as white as the snow ; 
'I'he stump of a jiipe he held tight in his teeth. 

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. 
He had a broad face, and a little round belly 
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly, 
lie was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf— 
And 1 laughed, when I saw him, in spite of my.self; 
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head. 

Soon gave me to know 1 had nothing to dread ; 

He .«poke not a word, hut went straight to his work. 
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk. 
And laying his finger aside of his nose. 

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 

He sprang to the sleigh, to the team gave a whistle. 
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle. 


But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 
“ Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night! ” 











MISC'EI.LANi:( U S MASTERPIECES. 


551 


WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. 

Born in Pennsylvania in 1802 ; died in 1801. 

OODMAN, spare that tree! 

Touch nut a single bough ! 

In youth it sheltered me, 

And I'll |)rotect it now. 

”Twas my fore tat hers hand 
That placed it near his cot; 

There, woodman, let it stand. 

Thy axe .shall harm it not! 

'J'hat old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o’er land and sea, 

And would.st thou hew it down? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 

O, spare that aged oak, 

Now towering to the skies ! 

When but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful .shade ; 

In all their gushing joy 

Here too my sisters played. 

My mother kissed me here ; 

My father pressed my hand— 

Forgive this foolish tear. 

Rut let that old oak stand ! 

Mv heart-.strings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark. <ild friend! 

Here .shall the wild-bird sing. 

And still thy branches bend. 

Old tree ! the stt)rm still brave ! 

And, woodman, leave the spot; 

While I've a hand to save. 

Thy axe shall hurt it not. 


character of the virtue. It soars higher for its object. 
It is an extended self-love, mingling with all the eti- 
joyments of life, and twisting itself with the minutest 
filaments of the heart. It is thus we obey the laws 
of society because they are the laws of virtue. In 
their authority we see, not the array of force and 
terror, but the venerable image of our country’s 
honor. Every good citizen makes that honor his 
own, and cherishes it, not only as precious, but as 
sacred. He is willing to risk his life in its defence, 
and is conscious that he gains protection while he 
gives it. 

What rights of a citizen will be deemed inviolable, 
when a State renounces the principles that- constitute 
their security? Or, if his life should not be invaded, 
what would its enjoyments be, in a country odious in 
the eye of strangers, and dishonored in his own? 
(\)uld he look with affection and veneration to such 
a country, as his parent? The sense of having one 
would die within him; he would blush for his pa¬ 
triot i.sm, if he retained any,—and justly, for it would 
be a vice. He would be a banished man in his na¬ 
tive land. 

1 see no exception to the respect that is paid 
among nations to the law of good faith. It is the 
philosophy of politics, the religion of governments. 
It is okserved by barbarians. A whiff of tobacco 
smoke or a string of beads gives not merely binding 
force, but sanctity, to treaties. Even in Algiers, a 
truce may be bought for money; but when ratified, 
even Algiers is too wise, or too just, to disown and 
annul its obligation. 



SANCTITY OF TREATIES, 1796. 

BY FISilER AMES. 

An Aniencan Slalesinan and writer; born in Dedham, 
Massacliuselts, 17oS. and died July 4. 1808. 

are either to execute this treaty or break 
our faith, 'fo expatiate on the value of 
public faith may pass with .some men for 
declamation: to such men I have nothing to say. 

What is patriotism? Is it a narrow aflection for a 
spot where a man was born ? Are the very clods 
where we tread entitled to this ardent preference, be¬ 
cause they are greener? No, .«ir; this is not the 



THE BLOOM WAS ON THE ALDER AND 
THE TASSEL ON THE CORN. 


BY nO\N Pr.\TT. 

Born in Ohio in 1819. 

HEARD the bob-white whistle in the dewy 
hreat h of morn ; 

The bloom was on the alder and the tas- 
.sel on the corn. 

I stood with beating heart beside the babbling Mac- 
o-chee, 

'fo .see my love come down the glen to keep her tryst 
with me. 




I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded path 
along. 












552 


MISCELLANEOUS MASTERPIECES. 


And pause to pluck a flower or hear the thrush’s song. 

Denied by her proud father as a suitor to be seen, 

She came to me. with loving trust, my gracious little 
queen. 

Above my station, heaven knows, that gentle maiden 
shone, 

For she was belle and wide beloved, and I a youth 
unknown. 

The rich and great about her thronged, and sought 
on bended knee 

For love this gracious princess gave, with all her 
heart, to me. 

So like a startled fawn before my longing eyes she 
stood, 

With all the freshness of a girl in flush of woman¬ 
hood. 

1 trembled as I put my arm about her form divine, 

And stammered, as in awkward speech, I begged her 
to be mine. 

’Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain, that lulls a dim- 
lit dream— 

’Tis sweet to hear the song of birds, and sweet the 
rippling stream; 

’Tis sweet amid the mountain pines to hear the south 
winds sigh. 

More sweet than these and all beside was the loving, 
low reply. 

The little hand I held in mine held all I had of life. 

To mould its better destiny and soothe to sleep its strife. 

’Tis said that angels watch o’er men, commissioned 
from above; 

My angel walked with me on earth, and gave to me 
her love. 

Ah! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my eyes are 
dim with tears— 

I think upon the lovitig faith of all these bygone 
years. 

For now we stand upon this spot, as in that dewy 
morn. 

With the bloom upon the alder and the tassel on the 
corn. 


THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. 

BY J. Q. ADAMS. 

.John Quincy Adams, the si.vth President of the 
United States, was born at Quincy, !M.assachusetts, 
July 11, 1767. lie died at Washington in 1848. 

HE Declaration of Independence ! The in¬ 
terest which, in that paper, has survived 
the occasion upon which it was issued.— 


the interest which is of every age and every clime,— 
the interest which quickens with the lapse of years, 
spreads as it grows old, and brightens as it recedes,— 
is in the principles which it proclaims. It was the 
first solemn declaration by a nation of the only legiti¬ 
mate foundation of civil government. It was the 
corner-stone of a new fabric, destined to cover the 
surface of the globe. It demolished, at a stroke, the 
lawfulness of all governments founded upon conquest. 
It swept away all the rubbish of accumulated cen¬ 
turies of servitude. It announced, in practical form 
to the world, the transcendent truth of the inalien¬ 
able sovereignty of the people. It proved that the 
social compact was no figment of the imagination, 
but a real, solid, and sacred bond of the social union. 

From the day of this declaration, the people of 
North 'America were no longer the fragment of a 
distant empire, imploring justice and mercy from an 
inexorable master, in another hemisphere. They 
were no longer children, appealing in vain to the 
sympathies of a heartless mother ; no longer subjects, 
leaning upon the shattered columns of royal prom¬ 
ises, and invoking the faith of parchment to secure 
their rights. They were a nation, asserting as of 
right, and maintained by war, its own existence. A 
nation was born in a day. 

“ How many ages hence 

Shall this, their lofty scene, be acted o’er, 

I In States unborn, and accents yet unknown ? ” 

It will be acted o’er, fellow-citizens, but it can never 
be repeated. 

It stands, and must forever stand, alone ; a beacon on 
j the summit of the mountain, to which all the inhabi- 
! tants of the earth may turn their eyes, for a genial 
j and saving light, till time shall be lost in eternity and 
I this globe itself dissolve, nor leave a wreck behind. 
It stands forever, a light of admonition to the 
rulers of men, a light of salvation and redemption 
to the oppressed. So long as this planet shall be 
inhabited by human beings, so long as man shall 
be of a social nature, so long as government shall be 
I necessary to the great moral purposes of society, so 
long as it shall be abused to the purposes of op¬ 
pression.—so long shall this declaration hold out, to 
the sovereign and to the subject, the extent and the 
boundaries of their respective rights and duties, 
founded in the laws of nature and of nature’s God. 


































^ « 1 A * , 

\. s ^ ^ 



■< '^/- V^ 

• -\:.'v'n- • •' 

« C' ^ jA S^T/lr "^'n \X’ fSriZS ^ '>^ 

<iX) .^^yK//h. ^ ^ r. -^Yv' c.^ 





\. '*' <*_ 


L * 8 


, % " • ^ .v\ .. 0 N G . 

-< '^. \ 

" \0 

^ rvO C' ^ \ a* 

OjO O. ^iii\* 

^ -'t- ■ I ' \V V, ♦ « > 

■ cT '^<- A' ^ <■ 

'• # «cS^\E/A ° .«'^ ■" 

Cl's 'i 



.A ' 0 4> X 

Cj ryTT^ ^ 

' 00 ' :fim^'- 



<> 

'* 


© ’x/^^ ...V 

t/» .\> 


r. 


<Q> ^ 


> N 0 




•i'- 

'0‘ . ^ 

^ o' . ^ > 





\0 




0 X 


. • y L ’T V 

v>'V - 

j v'* 'O 

^ '•> ^o ‘ - 0 ^ 

r I sc, « ^ 0 ^ o 

^ \ ri^ ^ cO 

"'• v>'!'^^"'->*’“”V *'*“^.-c, 

'‘.Smw: 




• iSvW'terW/^yz , ^ ^ 

. A ^ _ _ _^. 

c^\ c 0 ’^ '•' « As. ' . 0 '^ . ' ' ' * ’Ac. 





^0- ,'•». 'i. V>'' s iVU-'• " 

C^ ^ jA^^' ■■>} ■*^V xV ^ <* 

° A> \'^ “ Jiil^ " C- 

'■ -'s^ ° 

^ -X' 

•A .-C «, - . ,,-■ ^ *'0 . »■* ■■’1 





. 'i> 

'i rjy ^ 

X * S 

A\\ ■** 

*f '3^ aX 

'. ■’ 00 ’' I- “’ 

,• -c-^ •,®i;'^c-: ,oo ■--Cl 

iO^ ^ 


1 B 


0 9 \ 



f* aX' 
x/> ,<V 


o 

^ ^ 
^ y ' tx *:) 

\ ' t <? <* > •'^ •“• N ® 

^ " . .-i" r* i J'. 






% A<, -x*?^' ‘“''''-o'^"'v’" * ' V 

^ ^ ,.5^55^ ^ ^ C* x^ ^jy?^ ^ 

^ C \ ^ ^ -AX 

« ^0 







s 


, . » c !%'.^ SA - ■■ . c% ' ” • ' ‘ 

- V 


c\ ^ 

^ ^ ®<. ^ 

r \0 O 

0 ‘ ^ v> s' ■? ^/, \o^ ^ X • o , '^. 

Cy * jA '%. "^V \X' ^ ‘'^ 

rA\5;.^y.%c c 



A. *7*i , '*>■ o \ 

w/r %- -y^‘\->'' 

V* 4. . . , 






vV^' 




o> 


*» * 0 ^ 






»<1 


■%■ N\ n';^ /[n -v', .\\' ’ V \i«iBi/'w « y^ dS' ^ *r o. ^ .i- 

_ _ _ 

^ ^ A ^ 0 * X 4*\ ■ J ^ 

„0 ■ c. <f *''*' 

' ' '• \>^ ,'••-/'■> * ” '"> V c A .0, % • • . '• / * ■ '’■ v>^' '' •' 

^ - z 



4\\ ^s:^ / /I 

* * 

,A ^O '' / 

^ v'J^ C ^ ^ ^ 

^ ^ A w ^ 

^. -v 1 -^ = ' ■>-. 

> O r-. 

r .lO- ^ 

^-9 «■% «X' w'W 

r 



o 0 

.H -71 



'ci- V 

« ^O *” “* * " ^ '' (V ^ * ' ' * < 
0^..' 



A^‘ 

aV 


'^oo'" 


rf- 

'//fujffr -y 
/j KSv ^ 

c^ ^ ^ 

fJ/ s 

^ \ 

% "'» 

•'" \ 

^ C‘ 

v' 




.A 


0 -V 

,X ^ON 

‘'A- ''b. 

^ _r-^ 

rv 


V^fc y 


y 









^ o, V ^ \'' ., •^. ^ / 4 ; s '■ <■ ' o * jc 

-O’ «' ‘ *« 

ti V 

i » 

rf. ^^^, 5 . *% ", 

OV- ^ X * 0 ^ 'i' ^ ^ » N ° V 

rK\ A, -*n \X' * '•> J 

* '> <P- ^ o :» V cP„ 

,\v *J^ 



-^'^• 


<p. 


■' 



'^ 00 '^ 


cP'- O • 'jr, "X' ” ’' V'.‘jr ' 

-S c<K/?Z^ ,4 .yj*- ^ -5 

'' •XV "'* 

« 00 ' ^ 


.0 o 


s'* ^ ^ 



fj^ 

✓ ^ 



»■) 

s 0 ■ 

</ ^ 



y 


a' 

V »*“ 

% 

C.^ 

V 


cc>r* > 

^ « -0 
o' c'O-^ 


A -71 



V * 0 




.A » 


.<' c<.“ ■=,%/''••'': 


'bo' 


i\V ^y>. 


S ’ * , ^ ^ N *^0, 

■% 

' >7 ^ xT* »\' 













•> N 


•p a''' 

^ ° 

\' ‘^'. ^ i> ^ ^-eVyj/"^ 

C^ ./’ « /O C' t” ^'ty^ ^ 

C,<^ , V . /. . • . 

.'jfm^'. i.^ ,->? .. . 


O' »' ■ v'^!'i:^a""' 

' ' ^ ' ^ % ''9ii -^Ws 






o 


•#» •>- A 

^ K ^ 

= x®°<. * 

■*» ' <#• 

,0^ ^ ^ 'c- 

c 5 > > AVsMb. = 



3 M 0 


8 



"bo'^ 



, K >j A 


.X^^‘ 



V>. AV 

t/^ ,i^V 





%. \ 

^ 3^ 

^ V ^ 

•yy. O- _ <1 'JSC'tn c 

o 5 ■- CL' 'd. - 


•'■^\\^ S-. 

V s ^ ^ 



o. ^ 


>■" 'MjK^ % .' 

« tV\\V:-AV/' ir, -U* «\'^ ^ 


4^'' ■^-., 



4L ** '0 

\**' .V 


.. m 

^ .A'' " % ts ^ -' % 

* - ' ® je c ° ^ ■'46^ ^ 

/V> 2 -, *:*^ ^ ^ Ck y%y^^ ^ 

'o o'' o V ® ' '*b o'^ ^ V 


P^ s 


' C S » ♦ / 

I Y» s ' 


’ % ^ *. 









* ^ ^ * “ ’ ' 'v/ s s ” . >>' * 

«>» ^'\ . «f\''^<C'' y ^ V. ^ 

'^. c.'^' /h <= ^ c. 

. \ \W/ / *' % '• 

- A *D. ^ . '«-V,v' 


■V>^ « Q o#- 

■) N O . f ^ » 

^ ^ V 


'b'. 




^ * 










oO 


C^ I- 

® ., ^ » 1 A * v’?’ 

i ^ * 0 , s ^ ^ 

^ A b a\' ^ « 

' J\\\y /•' n ^ 

«e CV VV ” 





A y 












«5 

^ V ^ 


8 I X 




.•‘^ 4 ^*',°-^ cPA'*"’* , 

= j■; ■•oo' r^ 

,\;3-y'!.. y .., 


,0' ^^ ■' * o / C- \ ’ 

■A ^ h^^/L'-- 'V' aV. ^ 

a ^''T^Ts ,0 -^o.v'*' A ^ 

c o ^ ^ « ’^b * - 0 ^ A-" ' * < ■X'^ " 

V^ «> 4 >S> 0 v^ /K>2, V^ 

\ ^.sRvoY^ ✓ '' •^ a^/f/7Pr> ^ 








V 







8 i \ 


A \' S » « / 

\' S ^ f 





b A.V» 



•\ 




0 N 0 


aO 


0 





8 


✓ N ^V^’ * ^ ‘^ "* * r^ y 

^b ^ • IV .' ' “ « '-b c '^^b 






A^ 


o'' 


A' 


X 





^ * 

A >* 

' ^ A^ 'i' ^ ^ 

<*r ^ '\ ^ A, 



.0' -o 

"Av 1 CA° a 

•& CvOv h tf * 

-A 

•' '" ■>- X 

- ^ o' I. 




rV ’YL 



V VT* y ^MAvV:^ ■** ^ <#• 

I. v'^ <^ '^ . « 0 O f- 

.<A - .A^A ° ^ A 


x^ 



9 <1 


^ H 






n a V k\ O y aO 




'^oo'' 







" A V 

-T v’'^. V'VJP/ A-^'' 

•\ ^ ^ ^ c* -i 



^ O a W A 



N 

^ ^ ■^ ' * " / "'c 

■b. A?-'*' .VIjA'" \. aV 
_ ° b ,v 




































